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TRAIL  DUST 
of  a  MAVERICK 

VERSES    of   COWBOY    LIFE,    the 
CATTLE     RANGE    and    DESERT 

By    E.    A.    BRININSTOOL 

Reprinted  Introduction   to   First   Edition  by 

ROBERT   J.   BURDETTE,    D.  D. 

''The      Burlington       H  a  w  k  e  y  e       Man' 
Introduction  to  Second  Edition  by 

Prof,  GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES 


Author 


Lecturer 


Explorer 


SECOND  EDITION 


Published    by    E.A.    BRININSTOOL 

1428  Norton  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  California 

1921 


Copyright  1914 

BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 
Published  March,  1914 

Copyright  1921 

BY  E.  A.  BRININSTOOL 

Published  July,  1921 


Cover  Designs  by  H.  G.  Villa 


r? 


DEDICATION 

To  Capt.  James  H.  Cook,  one  of  the 
last  of  the  old-time  Texas  trail  cowboys; 
a  hunter  of  renown;  a  staunch  friend  of 
the  American  Indian;  an  army  scout  of 
distinction  and  my  warm  personal  friend, 
this  little  volume  of  cowboy  and  other 
Western  poems  is  most  affectionately 
dedicated. 


v 


447912 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FRONTISPIECE: 

DEDICATION         iii 

AUTHOR'S  PREFACE xiii 

INTRODUCTION  TO  FIRST  EDITION xv 

INTRODUCTION  TO  SECOND  EDITION xix 

A  BAR-4  BLUFFER       75 

A  BUNKHOUSE  REVERY 217 

A  COWPUNCH  COURTSHIP 231 

A  CHANGE  OF  OUTFITS 184 

A  CORRAL  SOLILOQUY 140 

A  COWBOY'S  VERSION 130 

A  CATTLE  RANGE  AT  NIGHT 49 

A  LOCOED  OUTFIT 209 

A  PRAIRIE  MOTHER'S  LULLABY 35 

A  REBELLIOUS  Cow  CAMP 71 

A  RANGE  RIDER'S  APPEAL 118 

A  ROAR  FROM  THE  BUNKHOUSE 237 

A  SPOILED  OUTFIT 142 

A  SHATTERED  IDOL 160 

A  VOICE  FROM  THE  OPEN 42 

AN  OLD-TIMER'S  LAMENT 239 

AUTUMN  ON  THE  RANGE 152 

BACK  TO  ARIZONA 37 

"BAD  MAN"  JONES 182 

BACK  TO  THE  RANGE 205 

"CACTUS  CHARLEY'S"  REGRETS 33 

CATTLE  LAND'S  FAREWELL 144 

"Cupio"  ON  A  Cow  RANCH 148 

CHRISTMAS  WEEK  IN  SAGEBRUSH 168 

vii 


CONTENTS 

FREDERIC  REMINGTON 114 

FOREST  CONSERVATION  IN  CRIMSON  GULCH    .    .    .  186 

His  COWGIRL  SWEETHEART 18C 

His  TRADEMARKS 225 

JUANITA ' 48 

MY  OLD  SOMBRERO 90 

MY  DESERT  FASTNESS 158 

MY  BUNKIE 201 

"OLD  SIX-GUN" 46 

OH,  DESERT  WINDS 96 

ONLY  A  BRONCO 128 

OUR  FADING  CHARACTERS 138 

ON  NIGHT  HERD 170 

OUT  OF  His  ELEMENT 193 

PONY  BOB'S  RANGE  SERMON 81 

RAINY  DAY  IN  A  Cow  CAMP 66 

REMARKS  BY  "BRONCO  BOB" 199 

SILENT  TRAILS 23 

"SHEEPED  OUT" 60 

SENCE  SLIM  GOT  "PILED" 68 

SUNSET  ON  THE  DESERT 107 

SPRING  IN  SAGEBRUSH 146 

STANDING  ON  His  MERITS 166 

To  His  PAL 154 

To  A  BACON  RIND 132 

To  AN  OLD  BRANDING  IRON 102 

To  His  Cow  HORSE 150 

To  A  TRIANGLE  CALF 124 

TROUBLE  FOR  THE  RANGE  COOK 204 

THE  BRAGGART 62 

THE  BLIZZARD-BOUND  HERD 31 

THE  BUNKHOUSE  BOYS 233 

viii 


CONTENTS 

THE:  COWGIRL 122 

THE:  CALL  FROM  THE:  WEST 136 

THE  Cow  MAN  JUBILATES 235 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  RAIN 188 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  RANGE 223 

THE  Cow  MAN'S  SADDLE 215 

THE  Cow  MAN'S  Loss 51 

THE  CHISHOLM  TRAIL 64 

THE  DYING  COWBOY 94 

THE  DESERT 53 

THE  DESERT  SERENADER 73 

THE  DEAD  PARDNER 70 

THE  DISAPPOINTED  TENDERFOOT 56 

THE  DESERT  PROSPECTOR 229 

THE  DESERT'S  LURE 120 

THE  FINALE  OF  THE  PUNCHER 156 

THE  FADING  FRONTIER 162 

THE  FRONTIER  MARSHAL 100 

THE  "GRUB-PILE"  CALL 195 

THE  HOMESICK  COWBOY 172 

THE  HOMESTEADER 203 

THE  INEVITABLE 221 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  DESERT 164 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  SAGE 190 

THE  LAST  DRIVE 27 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  WEST 116 

THE  MAN  FROM  CHERRYCOW 174 

THE  MOVING  PICTURE  COWBOY 227 

THE  MIRAGE 134 

THE  NEW  WEST 213 

THE  NESTER  TO  THE  Cow  MAN 29 

THE  OLD  Cow  MAN'S  CHOICE  241 


CONTENTS 

THE  OLD  Cow  MAN 207 

THE  OLD  LINE  SHACK 197 

THE  OLD  TRAIL  SONGS 39 

THE  OLD  Cow  HAWSS 44 

THE  OLD  LOG  CABIN 79 

THE  OLD  BUNKHOUSE 110 

THE  OLD  TRAPPER  SPEAKS 86 

THE  OLD  YELLOW  SLICKER 105 

THE  PROSPECTOR 98 

THE  RETURN  OF  "Buo" 58 

THE  RANGE  IN  SPRING    .    . 211 

THE  RANGE  COOK'S  "HOLLER" 178 

THE  RANGE  RIDER'S  SOLILOQUY 54 

THE  STAMPEDE 25 

THE  SHORT  GRASS  COUNTRY 92 

Tin:  TRAIL  HERD 77 

THE  WEST 219 

THE  WEST  FOR  ME     . 84 

THE  WANDERER 176 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 243 

UNREST  ON  THE  RANGE 126 

WYOMING      . 88 

WHERE  THE  SAGEBRUSH  BILLOWS  ROLL     ....  112 

WHY  ZACK  FEELS  "CHESTY"                      ....  191 


Trail  Dust  of  a  Maverick 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

The  first  edition  of  "TRAIL  DUST  OF  A  MAV 
ERICK"  was  placed  on  sale  in  the  spring  of  1914,  and 
met  with  ready  and  instant  favor.  The  edition  was  but 
a  moderately-sized  one,  and  was  completely  sold  out  in 
a  short  time. 

Since  then,  the  book  has  been  in  continual  demand; 
but  the  plates  had  been  destroyed  (unknown  to  the 
author)  and  it  was  necessary  to  make  other  arrangements 
for  a  new  edition. 

This  second  edition  of  "TRAIL  DUST  OF  A  MAV 
ERICK"  appears  in  a  new  dress,  both  as  to  cover  and 
type.  Some  changes  have  been  made,  and  new  and  more 
recent  material  added. 

The  author  thanks  his  many  friends  for  their  kindly 
expressions  of  appreciation  of  the  initial  volume,  and 
trusts  the  new  edition  will  be  as  favorably  received. 


INTRODUCTION 

(To  the  First  Edition) 

Not  poems  in  slang,  but  in  dialect.  For  slang  is  not  at 
all  recognized  as  belonging  to  the  standard  vocabulary  of 
the  language  into  which  it  may  be  introduced.  Its  origin 
is  low.  It  springs  from  the  gutter.  Its  grandfather  was 
a  thief,  an  outlaw,  a  beggar  and  a  criminal,  and  its  home 
was  a  den  of  vileness.  In  the  18th  century  its  name  was 
"cant"  and  "patter,"  and  it  was  the  speech  of  the  slums. 

But  "dialect"  is  as  respectable  as  a  poor  relation.  It 
may  not  shine  with  the  refinement  of  its  more  cultured 
relatives,  but  it  proves  its  claim  to  the  family  pedigree; 
it  is  frequently  older  in  its  descent  than  many  of  its  more 
aristocratic  cousins.  Slang  must  be  read  by  the  coaching 
of  a  glossary.  Dialect  interprets  itself.  It  is  rugged  as 
an  oak  tree ;  symmetrical  as  a  pine.  It  is  strong  as  granite, 
and  tender  as  the  cyclamen  clustering  around  the  foot  of 
the  gray  boulder. 

Robert  Burns  ennobled  Scottish  dialect.  He  revealed  it  to 
the  world  as  the  language  for  lovers ;  with  new  pet  names 
for  children  and  babies  that  rippled  like  music  on  the 
lips  of  mothers.  He  girded  it  with  an  armor  of  patriotism 
and  high  courage.  He  set  a  thousand  pens  in  motion 
vainly  trying  to  imitate  it. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley  did  the  same  thing  for  the  uncouth 
dialect  of  Indiana.  He  made  it,  on  the  lips  of  farmers 

XV 


Introduction 

and  farmers'  wives,  the  vehicle  for  love  songs,  sweet  in 
their  homeliness.  He  touched  its  syllables  with  pathos, 
until  crystal  tears  quivered  on  its  lashes.  The  joys  of  the 
fireside,  the  sorrows  of  the  hearth-stone,  the  songs  and 
laughter  of  the  nursery,  the  experiences  of  old  men  and 
the  games  of  little  children — only  Riley  could  best  inter 
pret  these  life-throbs,  and  dialect  was  the  only  speech  that 
could  interpret  Riley. 

And  E.  A.  Brininstool  has  done  the  same  thing  for  the 
abundant,  exuberant,  natural  dialect  of  the  range  and  the 
rodeo ;  the  long  winding  trail,  the  sweep  of  the  prairies, 
boundless  as  an  ocean  of  verdure.  He  makes  it  glorify 
the  desert;  his  verse  lends  splendor  to  the  sunrise  and 
beauty  to  the  sunset — the  matchless  sunsets  of  the  arid 
skies  and  the  wilderness.  Sagebrush  and  cactus  and 
yucca ;  canyon  and  arroyo  and  the  corral  bars ;  the  seas  of 
chaparral ;  the  shouting  of  the  storm  and  its  torrents, 
and  all  their  own  speech  of  desert-born  eloquence.  And 
he  can  do  this  because  he  is  of  their  blood,  and  knows 
their  "master  words." 

His  songs  have  their  deathless  quality— they  chant  the 
glories  and  the  beauties,  the  joys,  the  dangers,  the  dances 
and  the  conflicts  of  a  vanishing  life.  And  that  has 
a  charm  for  the  human  heart  that  will  last  forever.  The 
range  has  given  place  to  the  ranch.  The  long  trail  is  a 
wagon  road.  The  limitless  landscape  is  measured  by 
metes  and  bounds;  boundaries  are  lined  by  fences,  and 
locked  gates  stay  the  hoofbeats  of  the  "Old  Cow  Hawss" 
with  peremptory  "Thus  far  and  no  farther."  Thrice  wel- 


XVI 


Introduction 

come,  then,  the  memories  and  dreams  of  the  poet,  catch 
ing  the  vanishing  colors  and  melodies,  and  fastening  them 
on  the  canvas  of  singing  history.  This,  Mr.  Brininstool 
has  done  for  his  generation,  and  he  has  done  his  task 
faithfully  and  lovingly,  loyally  and  accurately. 

ROBERT  J.  BURDETTE. 
"Sunnycrest,"  Pasadena,  October  25,  1913. 


XVll 


INTRODUCTION 

(To  the  Second  Edition) 

Because  violets,  roses,  carnations  and  poppies  grow  in 
profusion,  shall  we  deny  their  exquisite  grace,  charm  and 
beauty?  Each  one  is  proof  sufficient  to  the  seeing  and 
wise  eye  of  Omnipotence.  No  one  but  God  could  make 
a  single  rose — aye,  even  a  blade  of  grass,  that  commonest 
of  all  the  things  that  grow. 

This  thought  comes  to  my  mind  as  I  think  of  my 
friend  Brininstool.  He  would  be  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  expect  recognition  as  a  great  poet,  because  he 
so  easily  fits  rhymes  together.  Indeed,  he  never  calls 
his  rhymes  anything  but  "verses,"  yet,  just  as  we  cannot 
afford  to  lose  one  violet,  one  rose,  one  blade  of  grass  in 
the  universe,  and  each  has  a  message,  so  we  cannot  afford 
to  lose  any  of  the  mental  fabrics  of  our  simpler  versifiers, 
especially  if  they  show  themselves  to  be  sincere,  honest, 
natural  and  truthful  in  their  work. 

Now  I  would  not  have  the  reader  imagine  that  I  have 
any  thought  of  "damning  with  faint  praise"  the  work  of 
my  friend.  I  simply  wish  it  to  be  understood  that  I  am 
not  claiming  for  Brininstool  more  than  his  work  justly 
entitles  him  to.  There  is  a  quaint  philosophy  in  much 
that  he  writes  that  is  wholesome  and  sane  in  spite  of  its 
homeliness — or  perhaps  because  of  its  homeliness. 


XIX 


Introduction 

Brininstool  has  known  the  cowboys  through  and  through. 
He  has  mixed  with  them  on  the  drive  and  at  the  rodeo, 
and  has  learned  to  know  them  in  their  varied  moods 
and  changes,  and  has  studied  their  speech  and  acquired 
their  terms  of  expression,  and  being  a  keen  observer  of 
human  nature,  he  has  learned  the  language  of  the  range, 
and  gives  it  to  us  just  as  it  is  talked  and  used  in  the 
every-day  life  of  the  cowboy.  Hence,  he  is  eminently 
qualified  to  tell  in  rhyme  and  dialect — both  of  which  come 
so  easy  to  him — the  story  of  this  picturesque  and  rugged 
character. 

I  am  glad  that  he  has  preserved  the  peculiar  and  dis 
tinguishing  speech  of  the  cowboy.  It  is  a  dialect  with  its 
own  rich  vocabulary.  The  poems  deal  with  the  cowboy, 
the  herd,  the  cowponies,  the  actual  riding,  the  deserts  and 
mountains,  ravines  and  foothills  where  the  cattle  used 
to  range,  the  sheep  that  the  cowboys  hate  so,  the  cowboy's 
pranks  and  general  "cussedness,"  the  effect  of  the  city 
on  him,  the  "passing"  of  the  cowboy,  the  cattle  range 
at  night,  the  old  bunkhouse,  the  range  cook,  the  cowgirl, 
the  love-making  of  the  cowboy,  his  soliloquy  and  wonder- 
ings  about  the  hereafter,  and  his  "last  ride." 

The  book  is  really  a  remarkable  series  of  pictures  of 
the  passing  cowboy,  written  with  knowledge  and  sym 
pathy.  It  is  a  valuable  contribution  to  the  literature  of 
the  Great  Southwest. 

Yes,  the  day  of  the  cowboy  has  gone!  He  was  a 
striking  and  individualistic  feature  in  the  early-day  devel 
opment  of  the  great  West — but  his  day  is  done!  With 
all  his  rudeness  and  roughness  and  toughness,  there  was 

XX 


Introduction 

much  good  in  him,  and  our  hearts  go  out  to  him  in  deep 
sympathy  and  with  every  good  wish.  And  somehow 
we  feel  that  there  will  be  full  understanding  and  sympathy 
given  to  him  in  the  Great  Beyond,  to  which,  once  in 
awhile,  his  mind  turned  with  questioning : 

"And  sometimes  I  wonder  and  wonder,  if  over  that  lone  Great 

Divide, 
I'll  meet  with  the  boys  who  have  journeyed  across  to  that  dim 

Farther  Side? 
If  out   on  them  great  starry  ranges,  some   day  in  the   future, 

I,  too, 
Shall  ride  on  a  heavenly  bronco  when  earth's  final  round-up  is 

through?" 

We  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Brininstool !  He  has  done  his 
work  well  and  faithfully,  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  these 
verses  he  has  written  on  the  cowboy  will  live,  as  they 
preserve  for  an  age  and  people  yet  to  come,  a  very  re 
markable  phase  in  the  early  development  of  our  national 
life. 

GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES. 
Pasadena,  Cal.,  May  30,  1921. 


xxi 


SILENT  TRAILS 

THE  trails  are  silent  since  you  went  away, 
It's  lonely  here,  and  everything  looks  strange; 
The  once-blue  skies  have  turned  to  ashen-gray, 
And  seem  to  blot  the  sunshine  from  the  range. 
I  miss  the  silvery  jingle  of  your  spur 

I  heard  when  you  was  ridin'  at  my  side; 
And  when  I  think  of  you,  a  sudden  blur 
Gits  in  my  eyes  and  blinds  me  as  I  ride. 

The  manzanita  berries  ain't  more  red 

Than  was  the  roses  bloomin'  in  your  cheek ; 
And  when  I'd  watch  you  lopin'  off  ahead, 

The  thoughts  I'd  think — but  didn't  dare  to  speak ! 
And  when  I  stop  to  cinch  my  saddle  tight, 

I  listen  for  your  voice  to  call  to  me ; 
And  when  I'm  joggin'  'round  the  herd  at  night, 

Your  sweet  face  in  the  jeweled  skies  I  see. 

It  wa'n't  like  this  before  you  crossed  my  trail — 

I  rode  the  lonely  range,  and  didn't  mind 
The  solitude  of  canyon,  knoll  or  swale, 

Or  deep  arroyo  that  I  left  behind. 
I  didn't  see  the  glory  of  the  hills 

You  pointed  out  to  me  when  first  you  came; 
But  now  my  lonely  heart  pulsates  and  thrills 

When  mountain  breezes  whisper  low  your  name ! 

23 


SILENT  TRAILS 

The  naggin'  of  the  boys  is  harsh ;  it  jars 

And  grates  upon  me  when  I'm  in  their  sight; 
I  look  to  see  you  at  the  corral  bars, 

But  no  one's  there  when  I  ride  up  at  night. 
I  cross  the  mesa,  where  the  sweet  perfume 

Of  wild  flowers  that  you  loved  so,  fills  the  air; 
But  all  their  brightness  can't  drive  off  the  gloom— 

And  it  is  just  because  You  are  not  there ! 

The  night-bird's  call  comes  to  me  through  the  dark ; 

The  flickerin'  camp  fire  throws  a  fitful  glare ; 
And  off  across  the  range  the  coyote's  bark 

Goes  echoin'  on  the  silent  midnight  air. 
I  hear  the  bedded  cattle  by  the  stream 

Stir,  when  the  grim  night-riders  pass  their  view, 
And  then  I  drowse,  and  doze  away,  and  dream, 

And  dreamin',  ride  the  trails  again — with  You! 


24 


THE  STAMPEDE 

A  LOWERING  night,  with  muggy,  sultry  air, 
A  thirsting,  restless,  sullen,  bawling  herd; 
Low,  distant  rumbling  sound  of  thunder  there, 

A  sky  with  vivid  lightning-flashes  blurred. 
The  flickering  campfire's  dull  and  feeble  glow, 
The  ribald  songs  the  grim  night-herders  sing; 
The  murmur  of  the  river,  faint  and  low, 
The  night-bird  overhead,  on  tireless  wing. 

From  rugged  buttes,  in  snarling  monotone, 

The  muttering  thunder  speaks  a  warning  grim; 
The  breeze  which  o'er  the  rolling  height  is  blown, 

Sighs  fitfully  across  the  mesa's  rim. 
Now  vagrant  rain-drops  kiss  the  dusty  ground, 

As  louder  growls  the  thunder-notes  on  high ; 
The  cattle  low  in  terror  at  the  sound, 

While  anxious  riders  watch  the  threatening  sky. 

And  now  the  storm  bursts  forth  in  fury  wild, 

As  jagged  lightning-flashes  leap  and  flare 
Across  the  heavens,  where  inky  clouds  are  piled, 

While  crash  on  crash  re-echoes  through  the  air ! 
In  mad  affright  the  herd  is  under  way! 

No  hand  their  headlong  rushes  can  restrain ! 
And  blinding,  glaring  shafts  of  light  display 

A  sea  of  clashing  horns  across  the  plain ! 

25 


THE  STAMPEDE 

Into  the  pitchy  darkness  of  the  night, 

With  spur  and  quirt  and  shout  and  wild  hello, 
Lithe  figures  speed  to  check  their  frenzied  flight, 

As  on  the  panic-stricken  thousands  go! 

********* 

And  now  the  Storm  God's  wrath  is  spent  and  gone; 

Hushed  is  his  voice  upon  the  mesa's  crest ; 
The  stars  peep  forth  through  scudding  clouds,  and  dawn 

Finds  wearied  riders  safe,  the  herd  at  rest. 


26 


THE  LAST  DRIVE 

BESIDE  his  sagging  door  he  sits  and  smokes, 
And  dreams  again  of  old  trail  days,  long  gone. 
His  eyes  are  dim,  his  form  is  bent  and  old, 
And  silvered  are  the  locks  about  his  brow. 
He  hears  again  the  thud  of  pony-hoofs, 
The  clash  of  horns,  the  bellowing  of  herds, 
The  shout  of  riders  and  the  pant  of  steeds, 
And  creak  of  saddle-leather  as  they  ride ! 
He  sees  the  dust-clouds  hover  o'er  the  trail, 
Where,  snaky-like,  the  herd  winds  on  and  on. 
He  sees  broad-hatted  men,  bronzed,  fearless,  bold, 
And  as  he  listens,  faintly  to  his  ears 
Is  borne  the  echoes  of  an  old  trail  song ; 
While  to  his  nostrils  floats  the  scent  of  sage 
And  greasewood,  cactus  and  mesquite,  that  seems 
To  lure  him  back  among  his  ranges  wide. 

'Tis  night!    And  now  he  sees  the  bedded  herd 
Beneath  the  open  canopy  of  heaven, 
While  hardy  night-guards  keep  their  vigil  drear. 
The  stars  gleam  out,  and  yonder  rugged  buttes 
Loom  strange  and  weird  and  dim  and  spectral-like. 
The  wagon-top  shines  brightly  by  the  stream, 
And  in  the  flickering  campfire's  feeble  glow 
He  sees  the  silent  forms  of  old  range  pals 


27 


THE  LAST  DRIVE 

In  dreamless  slumber  in  their  blanket  beds. 
The  coyote's  melancholy  wail  floats  in 
Upon  the  silent,  pulseless  summer  air, 
\Yhile  overhead,  on  steady,  tireless  wing, 
The  night-hawk  whirls  and  circles  in  its  flight ; 
And  down  below,  the  babble  of  the  stream 
Makes  low-crooned,  soothing  music,  rippling  by. 

Morn  comes,  with  crimson  bars  of  light  that  leap 
To  gild  the  buttes  and  tint  the  east  with  fire! 
The  lark's  song  echoes  clear  and  sweet  and  strong 
Upon  the  morning  air.    The  range-grass  gleams 
And  glitters  with  its  diamond-tinted  dew, 
And  all  the  great  wide  prairie  springs  to  life ! 

Again  he  sees  the  straggling  herd  move  on 
In  broken  line,  and  in  his  dreams  he  seems 
To  feel  the  bronco's  steady,  tireless  pace, 
That  carries  him  upon  his  last  long  drive, 
Which  ends  in  sleep  along  the  Sunset  Trail ! 


28 


THE  NESTER  TO  THE  COWMAN 

I   HAVE  watched  your  great  herds  trailing  toward  the 
far-off  setting  sun, 

As  my  plowshare  turned  a  furrow  in  your  wake ; 
I  have  seen  your  cattle  vanish  from  the  lands  which  I 

have  won, 

And  the  open  range  new  life  and  vigor  take. 
I  have  watched   wild   customs    fading,   as   the    foot  of 

Progress  pressed, 

And  I  stretched  my  squeaking  wires  here  and  there ; 
And  my  fields  of  grain  are  waving  on  the  bosom  of  the 

West, 
While  the  reaper's  song  is  ringing  on  the  air ! 

Where    the    cowman    watched    his    thousands,    and    the 

puncher  rode  the  range, 

While  the  wary  red  man  fought  their  stern  advance, 
I  have  lived  to  see  your  stretches  undergo  a  wonder- 
change, 
And  have  waked  the  slumbering  prairies  from  their 

trance. 
Where  your  herds  of  cattle  wandered,  I  have  planted  and 

have  sown, 

I  have  builded  schools  and  churches  in  the  land  ; 
You  are  but  a  dim  remembrance  of  a  life  forever  gone, 
You  have  bowed  submission  to  the  nester's  hand! 


29 


THE  NESTER  TO  THE  COWMAN 

And  the  trails  your  thousands  deepened  I  have  wiped 

from  off  the  hills ! 

Where  your  branding-fires  gleamed  are  seas  of  grain! 
On  the  bed-grounds  of  your  cattle  are  my  factories  and 

mills; 

You  have  gone — but  they,  forever,  shall  remain ! 
Where  your  campfires  glistened  brightly,  and  the  night- 
wind  crooned  and  stirred, 

And  the  dog- wolf  howled  his  mournful  serenade, 
And  the  cowboy  chanted  gaily  as  he  circled  'round  the 

herd, 
Progress  entered — and  its  conquest  has  been  made! 

I  have  seen  your  barren  mesas  blossom  underneath  my 

touch, 

And  your  desert  lands  responding  to  my  will; 
I  have  made  your  arid  stretches  yield  me  harvests  over 
much, 

And  your  rocky  slopes  their  golden  treasures  spill. 
Off  across  the  dim  horizon  are  your  trail-herds,  drifting 

slow, 

While  behind  their  dust  the  reaper  whirrs  and  hums! 
You  are  swept  resistless,  onward — Fate  decrees  that  you 

must  go, 
For  the  dawning  of  a  newer  era  comes! 


30 


THE  BLIZZARD-BOUND  HERD 

DOWN  from  the  winding  hills,  'mid  whirling  snow, 
And  whistling,  wintry  gales,  they  feebly  stray! 
Now  dumbly  halt,  despairingly  and  slow, 

Then  stagger  on,  in  aimless,  blinded  way! 
The  biting  winds  whip  madly,  front  and  rear, 
And  sting  alike  the  helpless  and  the  strong. 
The  shivering,  shrinking  beasts,  impelled  by  fear, 
Bawl  pitifully  as  they  are  swept  along! 

Again  they  halt,  as  shrieks  the  chilling  gale, 

As  if  in  keen  derision  at  their  plight! 
The  pelting  Arctic  blasts  again  assail 

And  mantle  them  afresh  in  robes  of  white! 
In  mute  despondency  they  huddle  there! 

Weak  creatures  sink,  to  rise  again  no  more, 
As  death,  in  icy  form,  sweeps  through  the  air, 

And  marks  its  trail  across  the  sagebrush  floor! 

They  drift  ahead !     Their  eyes  in  mute  appeal 

For  aid  which  cannot  come  in  that  harsh  blast ! 
Like  hordes  of  drunken  images  they  reel, 

Then  pause,  in  helpless  fear  and  terror  massed ! 
The  blinding,  drifting  snows  swirl  fast  and  free, 

And  scream  in  wild  defiance  at  their  prey, 
As  though,  in  mad,  demoniacal  glee, 

They  knew  Death  could  not  long  his  work  delay! 


31 


THE  BLIZZARD-BOUND  HERD 

Morn  breaks  upon  the  whitened,  rolling  range, 

With  sullen,  murky,  threatening,  leaden  skies! 
The  grim  gray  buttes  look  down  upon  a  strange 

And  saddened  scene,  which  in  the  valley  lies. 
Across  the  landscape,  bleak  and  wintry-blurred, 

The  Storm  King  flung  his  icy,  stinging  breath ; 
And  there,  in  silence  desolate,  the  herd 

Now  sleeps,  where  it  was  bedded  down  by  Death ! 


32 


i 


CACTUS  CHARLEY'S  REGRETS 

(With  apologies  to  the  author  of  "No  More  West") 

THE  West  ain't  what  it  wuz,  Bill,  the  good  ol'  days 
is  done ! 

It  makes  me  weep — it  does,  Bill,  'cuz  no  one  packs  a  gun ! 
The  ranches  all  are  fenced,  Bill,  as  you  look  up  and  down, 
The  punchers  hev  commenced,  Bill,  to  want  to  live  in 

town! 
They  dress  like  doods !    My  stars,  Bill,  the  boys  you  run 

across, 
All  ride  in  motor  cars,  Bill,  and  never  fork  a  hawss ! 

The  West  is  awful  tame,  Bill;  the  poker  joints  hev  quit! 
You  cain't  set  in  a  game,  Bill,  ner  booze  a  single  bit ! 
Thar  ain't  no  marshal  now,  Bill,  to  fill  you  full  o'  lead ! 
Sich  things  they  don't  allow,  Bill — the  good  ol'  times  is 

dead! 
They've  got  a  graveyard,  too,  Bill — but  shucks!  it  takes 

my  breath 
To   1'arn   thar's   mighty   few,   Bill,   but   died   a   nat'ral 

death! 

The  West  is  mighty  slow,  Bill,  compared  to  days  o'  old. 
'Cuz  lynch-law  doesn't  go,  Bill — at  least,  so  I've  been  told ! 
A   rustler  stands  a   chance,   Bill — it's  diff'runt  now,   I 
swear ! 


33 


CACTUS  CHARLEY'S  REGRETS 

They  uster  hev  to  dance,  Bill,  on  nothin'  much  but  air! 
The  wimmen  here  that  ride,  Bill,  use  saddles  that  are 

flat, 
And  allers  go  astride,  Bill — I  blush  to  think  o'  that ! 

You  wouldn't  know  the  West,  Bill !  Thar's  been  an  awful 
change ! 

The  people  don't  go  dressed,  Bill,  like  we  did — gosh,  it's 
strange ! 

The  ol'  slouch  hats  we  wore,  Bill,  hev  disappeared  sum- 
how; 

They're  never  seen  no  more,  Bill — the  men  wear  derbies 
now! 

You  never  see  no  quirts,  Bill,  no  lariats  ner  boots ! 

The  doods  all  wear  silk  shirts,  Bill,  and  smoke  store 
cigaroots ! 

The  West  is  awful  mild,  Bill;  the  Injuns  all  are  tame! 
The  ones  that  was  so  wild,  Bill,  are  in  the  movie  game! 
The  bad  men  that  we  knew,  Bill,  who  shot  out  bar-room 

lights, 

Are  sleepin'  'neath  the  dew,  Bill,  insted  o'  startin'  fights ! 
But  wuss  than  all  the  rest,  Bill — it  makes  your  ol'  pal 

sigh — 
It  don't  seem  like  the  \Vest,  Bill,  'cuz  it's  so  tarnal  dry ! 


34 


A  PRAIRIE  MOTHER'S  LULLABY 

THE  sunset  deepens  in  the  west, 
Faint  shadows  drift  across  the  sky, 
So  sleep,  dear  heart,  on  mother's  breast, 
And  rock  away  to  dreamy  rest, 
To  her  low,  soothing  lullaby! 
The  night  wind  breathes  across  the  plain ; 

The  moonbeams  shed  a  luster  bright ; 
The  cattle  low  a  weird  refrain 
Upon  the  star-lit  summer  night. 

By-low,  babe,  oh,  rockaby! 

By-low,  babe,  oh,  hushaby! 

Dozvn  the  winding  mountain  trail  thy  daddy  rides  where 
shadows  creep! 

So-ho,  baby,  close  thine  eyes! 

By-lozv,  babe,  the  sunset  dies! 
Sleep,  my  little  prairie  wild  flower,  lullaby,  oh,  sleep! 

Upon  the  mesa  bare,  and  brown, 

The  slinking,  gaunt  coyotes  prowl, 
And  hark!  upon  the  silent  air, 
In  ghostly  cadence  echoing  there, 

Floats  forth  the  gray  wolf's  mournful  howl! 


35 


A  PRAIRIE  MOTHER'S  LULLABY 

The  cowboy's  song  rings  loud  and  clear 

As  'round  the  bedded  herd  he  rides, 
And  from  the  stunted  sagebrush  near, 

The  sluggish  rattler  smoothly  glides! 

By-low,  babe,  oh,  rockaby! 

By-low,  babe,  oh,  hushaby! 

O'er  the  rugged  buttes  and  foothills  golden  moonbeams 
shyly  peep! 

So-ho,  baby,  close  thine  eyes! 

Dream,  to  mother's  lullabies! 
Sleep,  my  little  prairie  wild  flower,  lullaby,  oh,  sleep! 


36 


BACK  TO  ARIZONA 

TAKE  me  back  to  Arizona  as  it  was  in  early  days, 
Ere  the  cowboy  on  the  ranges  had  the  moving- 
picture  craze. 
Let  me  see  the  festive  puncher,  with  his  bronco  on  the 

run, 
Coming  into  town  and  shooting  up  the  landscape  with  his 

gun. 

Let  me  see  the  chuckawalla  and  the  Gila  monster,  too, 
Of  the  murderous  Apache  let  me  get  a  fleeting  view; 
Let  me  see  a  frontier  squabble  as  it  was  in  days  of  yore, 
When  the  "bad  man"  of  the  border  waded  in  a  sea  of 
gore. 

Take  me  back  to  Arizona  and  the  plains  of  alkali, 
On  the  cactus-covered  mesa  in  the  desert  let  me  lie. 
Let  me  hear  the  rattler  rattling  as  he  crawls  about  the 

sand, 
And  the  restive  cattle  bawling  as  they  feel  the  red-hot 

brand. 

Let  me  see  the  city  marshal  make  a  gun-play  in  the  street, 
And  a  victim  later  buried  with  his  boots  upon  his  feet! 
Take  me  back  to  Arizona — let  me  see  a  poker  game 
As  in  days  when  it  was  prudent  not  to  ask  a  stranger's 

name. 


37 


BACK  TO  ARIZONA 

Take  me  back  to  Arizona,  where  they  "sized"  a  fellow, 

not 
By  the  boodle  which  he  carried,  but  the  skill  with  which 

he  shot ! 
\Yhere  the  towns  were  short  on  water,  but  all-fired  long 

on  gin, 
And  there  never  was  much  mourning  when  a  fellow-man 

"cashed  in." 
Take  me  back  among  the  ki-yotes  and  the  centipedes  and 

such, 
Where  a  brand-iron  was  respected  and  a  "rustler"  hated 

much! 

Take  me  back  to  Arizona  when  it  lived  a  wild  career, 
And  they  had  a  man  for  breakfast  every  morning  in  the 

year! 

Take  me  back  to  Arizona — Arizona  rough  and  wild, 
\Yhere  the  days   were  dry  and  dusty  and  the  whisky 

wasn't  mild! 
Let  me  live  again  those  stirring  frontier  days  when  all 

was  new, 
When  the  faro  banks  were  frequent — but  the  churches 

mighty  few ! 
Let  me  join  a  sheriff's  posse  and  get  on  a  horse-thief's 

track, 
Where  a  hanging-bee  was  likely  if  they  brought  the  fellow 

back! 

Take  me  back  to  Arizona  in  the  palmy  days  I  saw, 
When  high  boot-heels  were  in  fashion,  and  a  six-gun  was 

the  law ! 

38 


THE  OLD  TRAIL  SONGS 

WE  used  to  have  a  heap  o'  fun  down  on  the  ol'  Bar-4, 
When  we  would  set  a-smokin'  down  around  the 

bunkhouse   door. 
I  mind  them  ol'  time  cattle  songs,  and  how  the  air  would 

ring 

When  Shorty  tuned  his  banjo  up  and  Greaser  Mex  would 
sing: 

"Oh,  bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prai-ree! 
Where  the  wild  ki-yotees  are  howling  free! 
In  a  narrow  grave  jest  six  by  three, 
Oh,  bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prai-ree!" 

There  wa'n't  no  style  about  'em ;  they  was  crude  and 

mebby  rough, 
But   to   us   cowpunch    fellers   they    sure    sounded   good 

enough. 

And  ev'ry  man  would  tap  his  heel  in  music  to  the  swing 
Of  that  ol'  homely  cattle  song  that  Greaser  Mex  would 

sing : 

<fWhoop-ee!  ti-yi!  git  along,  little  dogies! 

It's  your  'misfortune  and  none  of  my  own! 
Whoop-eel  ti-yi,  git  along,  little  dogies! 

For  you  know  Wyoming  will  be  your  new  home!" 


39 


THE  OLD  TRAIL  SONGS 

If  we  drove  a  herd  to  Yds  Kansas  and  had  throwed  'em 

on  the  trail 
About  the  breakin'  of  the  day,  when  stars  were  turnin' 

pale, 
The  point  men  and  the  swing  men  would  while  away  the 

time 
A-shoutin'  out  the  music  of  that  famous  ol'  trail-rhyme: 

"All  day  on  the  prair-ee  in  the  saddle  I  ride! 
Not  even  a  dog,  boys,  to  trot  by  my  side! 
My  fire  I  must  kindle  with  chips  gathered  'round, 
And  boil  my  own  coffee  without  bein'  ground. 
I  wash  in  a  pool  and  I  wipe  on  a  sack, 
I  carry  my  wardrobe  all  on  my  own  back! 
My  books  is  the  brooks  and  my  sermons  the  stones, 
My  parson's  a  wolf  on  a  pulpit  of  bones!" 

And  out  on  night-herd,  when  'twas  black  and  threat'nin' 
all  around, 

And  longhorns  kept  a-rovin'  in  and  out  of  their  bed- 
ground, 

It  used  to  calm  'em  down  a  heap,  when  we  would  start 
to  roar 

One  of  them  ol'-time  trail  songs  that  we'd  sung  to  'em 
before: 

"When  threatenin'  clouds  do  gather, 
And  herded  lightnins  flash, 


40 


THE  OLD  TRAIL  SONGS 

And  heavy  raindrops  spatter, 

And  rollin'  thunders  crash! 

W hat  keeps  the  herd  from  runnin' ; 

Stampedin'  far  and  wide, 

The  cowboy's  long,  low  whistle, 

And  singin'  by  their  side! 

Ho!  I'm  a  jolly  cowboy!    From  Texas  I  do  hail! 
Give  me  a  quirt  and  pony  and  I'm  ready  for  the  trail! 
I  love  the  rollin'  prairies;  they're  free  from  care  and 

strife, 
Behind  a  herd  of  longhorns  I'll  journey  all  my  life!" 


41 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  OPEN 

THE  light  shines  soft  through  yon  tinted  panes, 
And  you — you  tell  me  that  God  is  there ! 
That  your  shack  of  marble  and  brick  contains 

The  One  you  worship  in  song  and  prayer ! 
But  I — I  see  Him  where  soft  winds  blow, 

In  the  open  places  I  love  so  dear; 
Where  the  pine  trees  murmur  His  praises  low, 
And  His  guiding  presence  seems  always  near. 

The  shadows  gleam  on  your  gilded  walls, 

And  the  swelling  notes  of  the  organ  rise; 
But  God,  to  me,  from  The  Open  calls, 

And  I  read  his  sermon  against  the  skies. 
Your  choir  music  is  fine  and  sweet, 

But  sweeter  far  is  the  song  to  me 
From  the  mountain  torrent,  that  leaps  to  meet 

The  open  arms  of  the  throbbing  sea! 

Your   silken   curtains  and   velvet   seats, 

With  tony  people,  so  stiff  and  grand, 
Who  sing  of  a  city  with  golden  streets, 

And  a  mansion  fine  in  the  Heaven  Land — 
It  may  appeal  to  the  likes  of  you, 

But  God  ain't  near  when  I  step  inside ! 
He  speaks  to  me  with  a  message  true, 

Where  the  prairie  stretches  are  deep  and  wide. 

42 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  OPEN 

And  when  I  lie  by  my  campfire  bright, 

And  the  long,  low  shadows  look  strangely  grim, 
And  the  stars  peep  forth  through  the  silent  night, 

How  close  I  seem  to  the  side  of  Him ! 
It  seems  to  me  I  can  look  afar, 

Where,  soft  and  fleecy,  the  cloud-hills  show, 
And  read  His  word  in  each  gleaming  star 

That  shines  for  me  in  the  after-glow. 

Your  spire-crowned  churches  are  works  of  art, 

Where  the  mighty  notes  of  the  organ  roll, 
And  the  preacher's  message  may  reach  your  heart, 

And  the  choir  music  may  cheer  your  soul. 
But  when  I  want  to  get  near  the  throne, 

Oh,  lead  me  out  where  The  Open  lies! 
And  let  me  talk  with  Him  there  alone, 

As  He  smiles  on  me  from  His  sun-kissed  skies ! 


43 


THE  OL'  COW  HAWSS 

WHEN  it  comes  to  saddle  hawsses,  there's  a  differ 
ence  in  steeds, 
There  is   fancy-gaited  critters  that'll   suit  some   fellers' 

needs. 
There  is  nags  high-bred  and  tony  with  a  smooth  and 

shiny  skin, 

That'll  capture  all  the  races  that  you  want  to  run  'em  in. 
But  for  one  that  never  tires;  one  that's  faithful,  tried 

and  true, 
One  that  allus  is  a  "stayer"  when  you  hafto  slam  him 

through, 

There  is  but  one  breed  of  critters  that  I  ever  came  across 
That  will  allus  stand  the  racket — 'tis  the 

or 

Cow 

Hawss ! 

No,  he  ain't  so  much  for  beauty,  for  he's  scrubby  and 

he's  tough, 
And  his  temper's  sort  o'  sassy — but  you  bet  he's  good 

enough ! 
'Cuz  he'll  take  the  trail  o'  mawnin's — be  it  up  or  be  it 

down, 
On  the  range  a-huntin'  cattle  or  a-lopin'  into  town. 


44 


THE  OL'  COW  HAWSS 

And  he'll  leave  the  miles  behind  him,  and  he'll  never 

sweat  a  hair, 

'Cuz  he  is  a  willin'  critter  when  he's  goin'  anywhere. 
Oh,  yer  thoroughbred  at  runnin'  in  a  race  may  be  the 

boss, 
But  fer  all-day  ridin'  lemme  have  the 

or 

Cow 

Hawss ! 

When  my  soul  seeks  peace  and  quiet  on  the  Home  Ranch 

of  the  Blest, 
Whar'  no  storms  or  stampedes  bother,  and  the  trails  are 

trails  o'  rest; 
When  my  brand  has  been  inspected  and  they  tell  me  it's 

"O.  K." 
And  the  Boss  has  looked  me  over  and  has  signed  me  up 

to  stay. 
Oh,  I'm  hopin',  when  I'm  lopin'  off  across  that  blessed 

range, 

That  I  won't  be  in  a  saddle  on  a  critter  new  and  strange, 
But  I'm  prayin'  ev'ry  minnit  that  Up  Thar  I'll  ride  across 
That  big  Heaven  Range  o'  Glory  on  an 

01' 
Cow 

Hawss ! 


45 


"OLD  SIX-GUN" 

YOU'VE  been  a  good  old  pal  to  me 
In  all  the  years  gone  by; 
You've  saved  my  skin  in  many  a  spree 

When  Death  was  lurkin'  nigh. 
You're  rusted  some  and  battered,  too, 

But  I  ain't  knockin'  none, 
'Cuz  there's  a  heap  I  owe  to  you, 
You  handy  ol'  six-gun ! 

I  packed  you  on  the  cattle  trail 

Way  back  in  '86, 
And  never  knowed  you  yet  to  fail 

When  I  got  in  a  fix ! 
You've  shot  the  lights  out  more'n  once 

When  \ve  struck  town  fer  fun, 
An'  clone  a  heap  of  other  stunts, 

You  handy  ol'  six-gun! 

When  my  ol'  paws  close  on  yer  grip, 

I  seem  to  see  once  more 
Them  prairie  stretches  in  The  Strip, 

And  the  ol'  bunkhouse  door, 
Where  night-times  we  would  set  and  gaze 

Off  to'rds  the  settin'  sun — 
Oh,  wasn't  them  the  happy  days, 

You  handy  ol'  six-gun! 

46 


"OLD  SIX-GUN" 

I  mind  them  nights  we  stood  on  guard 

When  we  was  trailin'  steers, 
When  growlin'  thunder  ripped  and  jarred 

And  grumbled  in  our  ears ! 
And  how  that  stampede  made  us  sweat! 

'Twas  sure  a  lively  run ! 
Thar'  was  excitement  then,  you  bet, 

You  handy  ol'  six-gun ! 

And  now  you're  hangin'  on  the  wall 

Where  firelight  shadows  play. 
I  reckon,  takin'  all  in  all, 

That  you  have  had  your  day. 
But  when  I  think  what  you've  been  through, 

And  what  you've  seen  and  done, 
A  million  bucks  would  not  buy  you, 

You  handy  ol'  six-gun ! 


47 


JUANITA 

DREAR  are  the  prairies,  the  ranges  are  silent, 
Mournfully  whispers  each  soft,  passing  breeze. 
Down  in  the  canyon  an  eddying  murmur 

Echoes  the  sigh  through  the  swaying  pine  trees. 
Lone  are  the  trails  on  the  brown,  dusty  mesa, 

Up  where  the  gems  of  the  star- world  peep  through ; 
Sadly  the  night-bird  is  plaintively  calling — 
'Nita,  Juanita,  I'm  longing  for  you! 

Out  where  the  herds  dot  the  range  in  the  Springtime, 

Out  where  the  flowers  you  loved  nod  and  sway, 
Memory  brings  me  a  vision  of  sadness, 

Brings  me  a  dream  of  a  once-happy  day. 
Over  the  trails  you  are  riding  beside  me, 

Under  the  canopied  heavens  of  blue; 
Smiling  the  love  that  your  lips  have  repeated — 

'Nita,  Juanita,  I'm  longing  for  you! 

When  steals  the  night  with  its  grim,  dusky  shadows, 

As  'round  the  herd  I  am  jogging  along, 
Your  gentle  face  seems  to  lighten  the  darkness, 

Each  vagrant  breeze  seems  to  whisper  a  song. 
Whispers  a  melody  sweetly  entrancing, 

Telling  me,  dear,  of  your  love  ever  true ; 
Whispers  an  echo  that  sets  my  heart  dancing — 

'Nita,  Juanita,  I'm  longing  for  you! 

48 


A  CATTLE  RANGE  AT  NIGHT 

THE  prairie  zephyrs  have  dropped  to  rest, 
And  the  dust-clouds  settle  down; 
The  sun  dips  low  in  the  golden  west 

O'er  the  rolling  hills  of  brown. 
The  wearied  riders  come  loping  in, 

As  the  trails  grow  dim  and  strange, 
And  the  songs  of  the  insect  world  begin — 
'Tis  night  on  a  cattle  range! 

The  stars  gleam  out  in  the  calm,  clear  sky 

Like  twinkling  orbs  of  light, 
And  over  the  range  drifts  the  coyote's  cry 

Through  the  star-lit  summer  night. 
The  night-hawk  whirls  in  its  ceaseless  rush, 

As  the  evening  breeze  is  stirred, 
And  the  cowboy's  song  breaks  the  lonely  hush, 

As  he  circles  the  bedded  herd. 

The  campfire  throws  but  a  fitful  glare, 

And  the  buttes,  like  specters,  rise 
Far  over  the  deep  arroyo  there, 

Like  sentinels  of  the  skies. 
While  the  silent  forms,  in  their  blanket-beds, 

Dream  on,  to  the  night  wind's  sigh, 
As  gently  above  their  sleeping  heads, 

The  breeze  drifts  idly  by. 

49 


A  CATTLE  RANGE  AT  NIGHT 

The  moon  steals  up  o'er  the  dark  butte's  crest 

In  silvery  shafts,  which  gleam 
And  sparkle  there  on  the  brown  earth's  breast 

Like  gems  in  a  fairy  dream. 
The  night  creeps  on  with  its  mystic  charms, 

To  the  song  of  the  whip-poor-will, 
And  drifts  to  Dreamland  in  Nature's  arms, 

And  the  range  grows  hushed  and  still. 


50 


THE  COWMAN'S  LOSS 

IT'S  lonely  on  the  ol'  ranch  now; 
The  Little  Feller's  gone  away! 
Seems  like  the  sunshine's  gone,  somehow, 

Without  him  taggin'  'round  at  play. 
There  ain't  a  cowboy  on  the  place 

But  thought  the  world  o'  him,  and  more, 
When  he  would  come,  with  smilin'  face, 
A-toddlin'  in  the  bunkhouse  door. 

The  boys  ain't  joshin'  as  they  ride-  * 

Why,  they  ain't  been  so  still  fer  years ! 
It  broke  'em  up  when  baby  died, 

And  more'n  one  I've  seen  in  tears. 
And  there  is  somethin'  in  their  grip 

And  handclasp  that  stampedes  my  heart, 
And  sends  me  out  with  quiverin'  lip, 

And  eyes  that  jest  fill  up  and  smart! 

We  used  to  see  him  ev'ry  night 

When  we'd  ride  up  to  the  corral. 
Blamed  if  he  wa'n't  a  purty  sight 

With  them  long  curls  we  loved  so  well ! 
I  reckon  kids  like  him  is  rare 

Among  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers 
On  that  big  Heaven  Range  up  there, 

So  God  He  jest  sent  down  fer  ours. 

51 


THE  COWMAN'S  LOSS 

The  dogs  they  miss  that  kid  o'  mine, 

'Cuz  where  he  went  they'd  trot  along; 
They  hang  around  the  house  and  whine, 

Jest  like  they  sensed  they's  somethin'  wrong. 
The  poor  dumb  critters  seem  to  know 

The  little  pard  they  loved  ain't  near — 
I  don't  see  why  he  had  to  go 

And  leave  us  all  alone  down  here! 

Seems  like  we  cain't  git  used  to  it! 

The  hull  big  world  is  dark  and  lone! 
It  ain't  the  same  ol'  ranch  a  bit, 

Now  that  the  Little  Feller's  gone! 
But  heaven  is  sure  a  sunny  place, 

And  some  day,  on  that  golden  shore, 
We're  goin'  to  feel  his  rosy  face 

A-snugglin'  down  to  ours  once  more ! 


52 


THE  DESERT 

SUN,  silence,  sand  and  dreary  solitude! 
Vast  stretches,  white,  beneath  a  glaring  sky ! 
Where  only  those  stout-hearted  may  intrude, 
With  Death  to  harrass  them  and  terrify ! 

A  vast  expanse  of  endless,  treeless  plain, 

Where  sluggish  rattlers  crawl,  and  brown  swifts  run; 
Where  all  the  parched  earth  gasps  and  pants  for  rain, 

And  overhead  a  maddening,  molten  sun ! 

Dry,  powdery  sagebrush  seas,  and  cactus  beds, 
And  yuccas — snow-white  sentinels — which  gleam; 

While  here  and  there  the  ocatilla  spreads, 

And  waters  glimmer  from  a  phantom  stream. 

Like  withering  blasts  from  furnaces  white-hot, 
The  noon-day  sun  glares  pitilessly  down 

Upon  a  land  the  hand  of  God  forgot — 

Scorched,  lifeless,  shriveled,  aird,  bare  and  brown ! 

Only  the  awful  stillness  day  by  day 

O'er  wastes  swept  by  the  hot  sun's  burning  breath ! 
A  treacherous,  deceptive  Great  White  Way, 

A  land  of  desolation — and  of  death ! 


53 


THE  RANGE  RIDER'S  SOLILOQUY 

QOMETIMES  when  on  night-herd  I'm  ridin',  and  the 

1^        stars  are  a-gleam  in  the  sky, 

Like  millions  of  wee,   little  candles  that   glimmer  and 

sparkle  on  high, 
I  wonder  if,  up  there  among  'em,  are  streets  that  are 

shinin'  with  gold, 
And  if  it's  as  purty  a  country  as  all  the  sky-pilots  have 

told? 

I  wonder  if  there  are  wide  ranges,  and  rivers  and  streams 

that's  as  clear, 
And  plains  that's  as  blossomed  with  beauty  as  them  that 

I  ride  over  here? 
I   wonder   if   summer-time   breezes   Up  There  are   like 

zephyrs  that  blow 
And  croon  in  a  cadence  of  sweetness  and  harmony  down 

here  below? 

I  wonder  if  there,  Over  Yonder,  it's  true  that  they's  never 

no  night, 
But  all  of  the  hours  are  sunny  and  balmy  and  pleasant 

and  bright? 
I  wonder  if  birds  are  a-singin'  as  sweetly  through  all  the 

long  day 
As  them  that  I  hear  on  the  mesa  as  I  go  a-lopin'  away  ? 


54 


THE  RANGE  RIDER'S  SOLILOQUY 

And  sometimes  I  wonder  and  wonder  if,  over  that  lone 
Great  Divide, 

I'll  meet  with  the  boys  who  have  journeyed  across  to  the 
dim  Farther  Side? 

If,  out  on  them  great  starry  ranges,  some  day  in  the 
future,  I,  too, 

Shall  ride  on  a  heavenly  bronco  when  earth's  final  round 
up  is  through? 

They  tell  us  no  storms  nor  no  blizzards  blow  over  that 

bloom-spangled   range, 
That  always  and  ever  it's  summer — a  land  where  there's 

never  a  change. 
And  nights,  when  I  lie  in  my  blankets,  and  the  star-world 

casts  o'er  me  its  spell, 
I  seem  to  look  through  on  the  glories  that  lie  in  that 

great  Home  Corral! 


55 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  TENDERFOOT 

HE  reached  the  West  in  a  Pullman  car,  where  the 
writers  tell  us  the  cowboys  are, 

With  the  redskin  bold  and  the  centipede,  the  rattlesnake 
and  the  loco  weed. 

He  looked  around  for  the  Buckskin  Joes,  and  the  things 
he'd  seen  in  the  Wrild  West  shows — 

The  cowgirls  gay  and  the  broncos  wild,  and  the  painted 
face  of  the  Injun  child. 

He  listened  close  for  the  fierce  warwhoop,  and  his  pent- 
up  spirits  began  to  droop, 

And  he  wondered  then  if  the  hills  and  nooks  held  none  of 
the  sights  of  the  story  books. 

He'd  hoped  he  would  see  the  marshal  pot  some  bold,  bad 

man  with  a  pistol-shot, 
And  he  entered  a  tough  saloon,  by  chance,  where  the 

tenderfoot  is  supposed  to  dance 
While  the  cowboy  shoots  at  his  boot-heels  there,  and  the 

smoke  of  powder  begrims  the  air. 
But  all  was  quiet  as  if  he'd  strayed  to  that  silent  spot 

where  the  dead  are  laid. 
Not  even  a  faro  game  was  seen,  and  no  one  flouted  the 

long,  long  green  ; 
'Twas  a  blow  for  him  who  had  come  in  quest  of  a  touch 

of  the  real  wild,  woolly  West. 


56 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  TENDERFOOT 

He  vainly  sought  for  a  bad  cayuse,  and  the  swirl  and 
swish  of  a  flying  noose, 

And  the  cowboy's  yell,  as  he  roped  a  steer,  but  nothing 
of  this  fell  on  his  ear. 

Not  even  a  wide-brimmed  hat  he  spied,  but  derbies  flour 
ished  on  every  side! 

And  the  spurs  and  chaps  and  the  flannel  shirts,  the  high- 
heeled  boots  and  the  guns  and  quirts, 

The  cowboy  saddles  and  silver  bits  and  fancy  bridles  and 
swell  outfits 

He'd  read  about  in  the  novels  grim,  were  not  on  hand 
for  the  likes  of  him! 

He  peered  about  for  a  stage  coach  old,  and  a  miner  man 

with  a  "poke"  of  gold, 
And  a  burro-train  with  its  pack-loads  which  he'd  read 

they  tied  with  the  diamond  hitch. 
The  rattler's  whirr  and  the  coyote's  wail  ne'er  sounded 

out  as  he  hit  the  trail, 
And  no  one  knew  of  a  branding-bee  or  a  steer  round-up 

that  he  longed  to  see. 
But   the   oldest   settler,   named    Six-Gun    Sim,   rolled   a 

cigarette  and  remarked  to  him : 
"Th'  West  hez  gone  to  th'  East,  my  son,  an'  it's  only  in 

tents  sich  things  is  done!" 


57 


THE  RETURN  OF  "BUD" 

BUD  Sands  he's  with  the  boys  once  more ! 
You  bet  we're  glad  to  see  him  back! 
On  all  the  East  he  is  plumb  sore; 

"Gimme,"  says  Bud,  "this  ol'  line  shack! 
Them  city  noises  in  my  ears 

They  got  my  locoed  senses  r'iled; 
I'd  ruther  hear  a  herd  o'  steers 

That  had  stampeded  an'  gone  wild!" 

Bud  says  them  man-made  canyons  there 

Back  in  Noo  Yawk,  is  mighty  high. 
"I  couldn't  ketch  a  breath  o'  air, 

Ner  see  a  thing,"  sed  Bud,  "but  sky ! 
An'  you  kin  walk  from  end  to  end 

Of  that  dern  town  the  hull  day  through, 
An'  never  meet  a  single  friend, 

Ner  hear  folks  shoutin'  'Howdy-do!'" 

Bud  says  he  won't  go  back  agin ! 

"Right  hyar,"  says  Bud,  "I  end  my  days, 
An'  with  the  bunkhouse  bunch  cash  in ! 

No  more  fer  me  them  city  ways! 
The  ol'  Bar-4  is  good  enuff, 

So  I'm  a-goin'  to  stick  around, 
'Cuz  forty-per  ain't  half  so  tough 

As  rangin'  on  a  strange  bed-ground." 

58 


THE  RETURN  OF  "BUD" 

Bud  says  when  he'd  go  down  the  street 

In  his  ol'  Stetson,  folks  'ud  stare, 
An'  size  him  up  from  head  to  feet, 

Jest  like  he  had  no  bizness  there. 
"I  sure  made  up  my  mind,"  Bud  sed, 

"It  wa'n't  no  place  fer  sich  as  I, 
With  street  cyars  rumblin'  overhead, 

An'  benzine  broncos  scootin'  by !" 

So  Bud  he  is  a  happy  lad, 

With  six  cow  ponies  to  his  string. 
He  says  that  he'll  be  mighty  glad 

When  we  start  roundin'  up  this  spring. 
He's  some  cow-hand,  you  bet  Bud  is ! 

He's  down  there  now  in  the  corral 
A-gentlin'  them  there  broncs  o'  his, 

An' — holy  mack'rel!  hear  him  yell! 


59 


"SHEEPED  OUT" 

IT  wasn't  very  long  ago  we  bossed  the  ranges  wide ; 
Our  cattle  wandered  to  and  fro  across  the  great 
divide. 
We  roamed  its  broad  and  beaten  track  with  all  our  kith 

and  kin, 

But  now  we're  bein'  crowded  back — the  woolly-backs  are 
in! 

For  it's  bleat,  bleat,  bleat! 

Can't  you  hear  'em  up  the  trail f 
They're  crop  pin'  all  the  browsiri  off 

From  every  hill  and  swale! 
The  sullen  herder  follows  on, 

And  though  he  travels  slow, 
It  looks  as  if  the  fates  decreed 

The  cattlc-nuin  must  go! 

We  won  the  West  from  savage  bands,  through  many  a 

bloody  deed, 
And  blazed  our  trails  across  its  lands,  and  tamed  'em  for 

our  need. 
We  was  the  pioneers  of  all,  and  though  our  style  was 

rough, 
While  we  could  hear  our  cattle  call,  the  West  was  good 

enough. 


60 


"SHEEPED  OUT" 

But  it's  bleat,  bleat,  bleat! 

Now  the  woolly-backs  are  here! 
They're  crowdin'  in  upon  the  range 

We've  held  from  year  to  year. 
We  fought  to  git  the  lands  we  love, 

But  now  we  stand  no  show; 
Our  herds  are  gittin  pushed  aside — 

The  cattle-man  must  go! 

Already  we've  been  forced  along  the  range  from  state  to 

state 

By  that  blamed  idiotic  song  the  cattle-men  all  hate ! 
The  bobbin'  lines  of  woolly-backs  are  stretchin'  far  away, 
And  we  must  quit  our  lands  and  shacks  and  seek  new 

range  today. 

For  it's  bleat,  bleat,  bleat! 

And  a  trail  o'  dust  belozv! 
The  woolly-backs  are  crowdin'  in, 

And  we  have  got  to  go! 
We  love  the  land  we  fought  to  win, 

It's  our'n  alone  by  right, 
But  we  are  fadin'  with  our  herds, 

And  driftin'  out  o'  sight! 


61 


THE  BRAGGART 

I'VE  fit  the  Injuns  often,  pard, 
An*  I  hev  killed  a  few. 
I've  had  the  cusses  chase  me  hard, 

Been  captured  by  'em,  too! 
They've  give  me  many  a  pain  an*  ache, 

An'  stripped  me  of  my  clo'es, 
An'  tried  to  burn  me  at  the  stake — 
In  movin'  pitcher  shows ! 

I  was  a  bad  'un  in  my  prime! 

Played  outlaw?     Yes-sir-ree! 
I've  done  bank  robbin'  many  a  time, 

An'  held  up  trains,  by  gee ! 
An'  I've  been  stabbed  an'  cut  an'  shot 

A  dozen  times,  I  s'pose, 
An'  helped  in  many  a  murder  plot — 

In  movin'  pitcher  shows! 

I've  been  a  cowboy,  you  kin  bet! 

An'  played  the  game  all  through ! 
Chased  hawss-thieves  till  it  made  me  sweat, 

An'  helped  lynch  rustlers,  too! 
I've  played  the  hero  more'n  once  f 

Yep,  that's  my  fav'rit  pose! 
Whar'  did  I  pull  off  all  these  stunts? 

In  movin'  pitcher  shows! 

62 


THE  BRAGGART 

I've  druv  a  stagecoach  in  the  West 

Plumb  full  o'  human  souls! 
Had  robbers  loot  the  treasure  chest, 

An'  shoot  me  full  o'  holes! 
An'  held  up  passengers,  by  smoke! 

An'  took  their  cash  an'  clo'es, 
I  shorely  hev — this  ain't  no  joke — 

In  movin'  pitcher  shows! 

I've  killed  nigh  onto  twenty  men! 
An'  I've  been  dragged  to  jail, 

An'  jest  escaped  a  lynchin'  when 
A  posse  struck  my  trail! 

I'm  THE  bad  man  of  Bitter  Creek ! 
When  I'm  around,  gore  flows, 

Y-e-o-u-w-w-w!   Jest  watch  me  do  the  trick- 
In  movin'  pitcher  shows! 


63 


THE  CHISHOLM  TRAIL 

WHERE  prairie  breezes  softly  croon 
Across  the  ranges  there, 
I  seem  to  hear  a  low,  sweet  tune 

Upon  the  balmy  air. 
It  echoes  softly  as  it  strays 

Across  each  hill  and  swale, 
And  sings  to  me  of  frontier  days 
Upon  the  Chisholm  Trail ! 

I  look  beyond,  as  in  a  dream, 

And  seem  to  see  again 
The  trail-herd  by  a  sluggish  stream, 

Held  by  broad-hatted  men. 
I  see  the  drifting  dust  clouds  rise, 

And  hear  the  cowman's  hail, 
As  morning  sunbeams  tint  the  skies 

Upon  the  Chisholm  Trail. 

The  old  chuckwagon-top  gleams  white! 

The  campfire  smoke  I  see, 
As  in  the  early  morning  light 

The  "grub-pile"  call  rings  free! 
And  from  their  tarps  the  punchers  creep, 

As  morning  stars  grow  pale, 
And  toss  aside  their  dreams  and  sleep, 

Upon  the  Chisholm  Trail ! 

64 


THE  CHISHOLM  TRAIL 


Grass-grown  are  now  those  trails  we  rode ! 

The  herds  have  all  passed  on! 
Where  once  the  teeming  thousands  flowed, 

The  last  longhorns  have  gone! 
But  'round  the  campfire's  cheery  blaze, 

Full  many  a  thrilling  tale 
Brings  back  to  mind  those  frontier  days 

Upon  the  Chisholm  Trail ! 


RAINY  DAY  IN  A  COW  CAMP 

GUSTY  sheets  o'  rain  a-fallin', 
Yellow   slickers  our  attire; 
Wet,  bedraggled  longhorns  bawlin', 

Cook  a-cussin'  at  the  fire! 
Grub  all  water-soaked  and  soggy! 

Foreman's  temper  all  a-flare! 
Ev'ry  puncher  feelin'  groggy ; 
'Doby  stickin'  ev'rywhere! 

Broncs  a-standin',  heads  a-droopin', 

All  their  ginger  plumb  soaked  out! 
Dumb  to  all  the  wrangler's  whoopin' 

An'  to  ev'ry  puncher's  shout. 
Saddles  sloppy  an'  a-slippin' ! 

Cinches  plastered  full  o'  mud! 
Ev'ry  ol'  sombrero  drippin'! 

'Royos  roarin'  with  the  flood! 

Ol'  cow  hawss  a-slippin',  slidin', 

Up  an'  down  the  slushy  hills! 
Punchers  all  humped  up  a-ridin', 

Ev'ry  minute  has  its  thrills! 
Wind  a-whistlin';  skies  a-weepin', 

Slickers  flappin'  when  we  lope! 
Rain  inside  our  chaps  a-creepin', 

Kinks  an'  knots  in  ev'ry  rope! 

66 


RAINY  DAY  IN  A  COW  CAMP 

Ev'rybody  blue  an'  sour! 

Not  a  sign  o'  sun  in  sight! 
Jest  a  steady,  soakin'  shower 

When  we  ride  to  camp  at  night ! 
Blankets  sozzled,  wet  an'  mussy! 

Tarps  all  damp  an'  feelin'  strange! 
Ev'ry  puncher  mad  an'  cussy ! 

Hopin'  mornin'  brings  a  change! 


67 


SENCE  SLIM  GOT  PILED 

SLIM  Bates  ain't  braggin'  any  more 
About  how  he  kin  ride! 
An'  gosh !  but  he  gits  mighty  sore 

Whenever  he  is  guyed. 
He  uster  be  so  full  o'  vim, 

So  reckless  an'  so  wild, 
But  there's  a  change  come  over  Slim 
Sence  he  got  piled! 

He  uster  tell  of  outlaw  nags 

He'd  gentled  like  a  cow ; 
But  Slim  ain't  makin'  any  brags 

Of  tamin'  outlaws  now ! 
He's  jest  the  humblest  cuss,  I  swear ! 

An'  meek  as  any  child! 
Slim  dassn't  even  take  a  dare 

Sence  he  got  piled! 

Accordin'  to  Slim's  flossy  talk 

He  was  some  cowpunch  once. 
The  worst  cayuse  could  pitch  an'  balk, 

An'  try  his  wildest  stunts! 
But  now  Slim  hangs  his  head  in  shame! 

Fer  six  weeks  he  ain't  smiled! 
He  knows  that  he  ain't  in  the  game 

Sence  he  got  piled ! 

68 


SENCE  SLIM  GOT  PILED 

Of  course  when  he  come  driftin'  in, 

We  thought  he  knowed  his  biz; 
We  swallered  all  them  yarns  he'd  spin 

'Bout  ridin'  stunts  o'  his ! 
But  now  we  pass  him  up  with  scorn, 

He's  all  but  plumb  exiled! 
Slim  ain't  a-tootin'  of  his  horn 

Sence  he  got  piled! 

He's  bogged  hisself  down  good'n  deep ! 

He'd  better  drift  along 
An'  git  a  job  at  herdin'  sheep! 

'Cuz  here  he's  in  plumb  wrong! 
Nobody  herds  with  him  a  bit, 

He's  got  this  outfit  r'iled ! 
Slim  never'll  hear  the  last  of  it 

Sence  he  got  piled! 


69 


THE  DEAD  PARDNER 

HE'S  left  us  for  that  sunny  range  so  fair 
Which  lies  afar  across  the  Great  Divide; 
And  gentle  are  the  breezes  blowing  there, 

All  low  and  sweet  upon  the  Other  Side. 
With  storms  his  trail  will  never  be  beset ; 

No  wild  winds  howl  where  he  is  safe  at  rest ; 
No  dangers  on  those  peaceful  plains  are  met ; 
No  perils  there  strike  terror  to  his  breast. 

He  rides  a  range  where  blossoms  sweetly  bend 

And  nod  and  smile  as  he  goes  loping  by ; 
Where  Nature's  colors,  in  a  wondrous  blend, 

Are  flung  afar  on  coulee,  hill  and  sky. 
Soft  are  the  summer  winds  which  kiss  his  cheek! 

Smooth  are  the  trails,  and  fair,  in  which  he  rides! 
And  there,  through  shaded  glen  and  mount  and  peak, 

The  Round-up  Boss  his  way  forever  guides. 

Sleep  well,  departed  friend!  Sweet  be  the  dreams 

Which  come  to  you  in  that  great  Home  Corral ! 
And  as  you  ride  the  line  past  singing  streams, 

May  your  report  each  night  be,  "All  is  well !" 
May  every  trail  you  ride  be  decked  with  flowers, 

And  may  the  Foreman  lead  you  by  His  love, 
And  guard  you,  in  your  rest  and  waking  hours, 

On  his  Home  Ranch  of  rest  and  peace  Above! 

70 


A  REBELLIOUS  COW  CAMP 

OL'  JIM,  our  cook,  has  got  in  wrong, 
An'  we're  plumb  sore  at  him ! 
Up  to  today  we  got  along 
Without  a  kick  at  Jim. 
We  reckon  that  he  got  too  gay ; 

We  don't  know  what  it  means, 
But  dinner  wa'n't  no  good  today — 
Jim  sp'iled  the  beans! 

'Tain't  often  ol'  Jim  gits  in  bad, 

'Cuz  he's  some  cook,  you  bet! 
But  now  us  punchers  shore  are  mad, 

An'  cussin'  of  him  yet! 
His  sour-dough  bread  was  out  o'  sight, 

So  was  his  spuds  an'  greens ; 
Yet  dinner  didn't  taste  jest  right — 

Jim  sp'iled  the  beans! 

We  never  made  no  yelps  afore 

At  what  ol'  Jim  dished  up. 
Today  each  puncher  made  a  roar, 

An'  growled  jest  like  a  pup! 
We  gener'lly  pitch  in  at  noon, 

An'  ev'ry  dish  we  cleans, 
But  things  today  was  out  o'  tune — 

Jim  sp'iled  the  beans! 

71 


A  REBELLIOUS  COW  CAMP 


It  wa'n't  becuz  his  tin-can  truck 

Wa'n't  cooked  to  suit  our  style, 
'Cuz  ol'  Jim  allus  has  good  luck, 

An'  when  he  yells  "Grub-pile!" 
We  know  they's  somethin'  good  on  deck, 

An'  jest  what  that  call  means ; 
But  things  went  wrong  today,  by  heck ! 

Jim  sp'iled  the  beans! 

He  never  offered  no  excuse, 

An'  that  is  what  gits  us! 
But  we  all  knowed  it  wa'n't  no  use 

To  start  to  pick  a  fuss. 
But  this  here  cow  camp's  sure  plumb  sore, 

An*  t'ord  a  strike  we  leans! 
Our  appetities  ain't  good  no  more — 

Jim  sp'iled  the  beans! 


72 


THE  DESERT  SERENADER 

QCAVENGER  of  Sagebrush  Land! 
O     Slinking  desert  nomad  gray, 
On  the  mesa-top  you  stand 

As  the  darkness  dims  the  day. 
Mournfully  o'er  draw  and  hill, 

Where  in  early  morn  you  prowl, 
In  staccato  sharp  and  shrill, 

Floats  your  quavering,  lonely  howl. 

' Bow-wow-wow!  ki-yi-yee-ip-ip-eow-ow-ow! 
Bow-wow!  ki-yi-i-i-ee-eouw-eow-ow-eow-ow-ow! 
Yee-ee-ee-yeow-wow-ow-ow-ki-yip-ee-i-ow-ow!" 

With  the  sunset's  glories  flung 

O'er  the  buttes-in  shadows  grim, 
Then  you  tune  your  yelping  tongue 

For  your  dreary  evening  hymn. 
And  in  ghostly  cadence  there, 

Rising,  falling,  faint  and  blurred, 
Drifting  on  the  desert  air, 

Your  weird  serenade  is  heard: 

'Bow-wow-wow !  ki-yi-yee-ip-ip-eow-ow-ow ! 
Bow-wow!  ki-yi-i-i-ee-eouw-eow-ow-eow-ow-ow! 
Yee-ec-ee-yeow-wow-ow-ow-ki-yip-ee-i-oiv-ow!" 


73 


THE  DESERT  SERENADER 

Specter  of  the  sand  dunes  drear, 

Sneaking,  prowling,  eagle-eyed — 
Your  grim  music  strikes  my  ear 

O'er  arroyos  deep  and  wide. 
Like  a  funeral  dirge  it  floats, 

In  a  cheerless,  somber  wail, 
And  its  melancholy  notes 

Quaver  down  the  dust-strewn  trail : 

"Bow-wow-wow I  ki-yi-yee-ee-ip-ip-eow-ow-ow! 
Bow-wow!  ki-yi-i-i-ee-eouw-eow-ow-eoiv-ow-ow! 
Yee-ee-ee-yeow-woiv-ow-ow-ki-yip-ee-i-oiv-ow!" 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 

Oft  I  waken  from  my  sleep, 
In  the  campfire's  flickering  light, 

As  your  mournful  echoes  creep 
Off  across  the  pulseless  air, 

Drifting  o'er  the  seas  of  sand, 
And  I  curse  your  presence  there, 

Scavenger  of  Sagebrush  Land! 

"Boiv-wow-ivow !  ki-yi-yee-ip-ip-eow-ow-ow! 
Bow-wow!  ki-yi-i-i-ee-eouw-eow-ow-eow-ow-ow! 
Yee-ee-ee-yeow-woiv-ow-ow-ki-yip-ee-i-oiv-ow!" 


74 


A  BAR-4  BLUFFER 

SENCE  Andy  Brown  of  the  Bar-4 
Got  piled  down  at  the  Cheyenne  fair, 
He  jest  ain't  wuth  a  cuss  no  more 
At  ridin'  broncs  that  pitch  an'  ra'r. 

He  used  to  brag  he  was  the  boss 
Bronc'-peeler  at  this  ridin'  game, 

An'  sed  thar'  wa'n't  no  outlaw  hawss 
On  all  the  range  HE  couldn't  tame ! 

Us  punchers  took  him  at  his  word, 
We  swallered  all  his  blow  an'  brag 

When  he  jest  swore  he  was  a  bird 
At  ridin'  any  outlaw  nag. 

He  got  us  locoed — darn  his  hide ! 

But  after  all,  it  wuzn't  strange; 
The  smooth  an'  easy  way  he  lied 

Got  us  stampeded  off  our  range. 

Our  outfit  gambled  ev'ry  cent 

That  Andy  Brown  would  not  git  throwed, 
An'  when  our  cash  was  in,  we  went 

An'  bet  the  outfits  that  we  rode. 


75 


A  BAR-4  BLUFFER 

Our  saddles,  six-guns  an'  our  chaps, 
Our  ropes,  our  bridles,  an',  to  boot, 

Our  spurs  an'  bits  an'  other  traps — 
We  bet  'em  all  on  that  galoot. 

He  drawed  a  little  pinto  mare, 

An'  when  he'd  cinched,  they  turned  her  loose ! 
Two  jumps  an'  he  went  in  the  air 

A-clawin'  leather  like  the  deuce! 

****** 

Our  faith  in  Andy  Brown  has  sagged! 

Our  outfit's  wiser,  to  a  man  ; 
He  may  ride  broncos  like  he's  bragged, 

But  darned  if  WE  believe  he  can ! 


76 


THE  TRAIL  HERD 

LOUDED  sun  an'  coolin'  morn, 

Squeakin'  taps  an'  spurs  a-rattle  ; 
Loungin'  'crost  my  saddle-horn, 

Trailin'  dull-eyed,  bawlin'  cattle. 
Chokin'  dust-clouds  in  the  air, 

Off  acrost  the  range  a-driftin'; 
Punchers  cussin'  stragglers  there, 
As  the  mornin'  mist  is  liftin'. 

Wild-eyed  mavericks  on  the  prod; 

Plungin'  ponies,  buckin',  snortin', 
Or  across  the  sun-baked  sod, 

Full  o'  ginger  a-cavortin'. 
Ol'  chuck-wagon  on  ahead, 

For  to  git  the  grub-pile  ready ; 
Sun  a-blazin'  fiery  red, 

Weak  calves  wobblin'  'long  unsteady. 

Summer  day  a-growin'  old, 

As  the  crimson  sun  is  sinkin'  ; 
River  sparklin'  jest  like  gold, 

Where  the  thirsty  herd  is  drinkm'. 
Cook  a-yellin'  "Grub-pile,  boys!" 

Cups  an'  old  tin  plates  a-rattle; 
Punchers  makin'  lots  o'  noise 

On  the  bed-ground  with  the  cattle. 


77 


THE  TRAIL  HERD 

Silence  on  the  midnight  air! 

Me  on  night-herd  slowly  moggin' 
'Round  the  bedded  cattle  there, 

Singin'  to  'em  as  I'm  joggin'. 
Campfire  twinklin'   down  below, 

River  sort  o'  lullabyin' 
To  the  sleepers,  soft  an*  low, 

In  their  blanket-beds  a-lyin'. 

Second  watch  a-rollin'  out 

Sleepy-eyed,  with  grimy  faces, 

At  the  foreman's  lusty  shout, 
Saddlin'  up  to  take  our  places. 

Me  a-drowsin'  off  to  rest 

With  the  starry  sky  above  me- 


Thoughts  of  You  within  my  breast, 
Dreamin,  dreamin'  that  You  love  me! 


78 


THE  OLD  LOG  CABIN 

(On  a  trip  into  the  Montana  cattle  country,  the  writer  came 
across  an  old  log  cabin,  abandoned  and  desolate,  which 
prompted  the  following:) 

IT  stands  alone  on  a  treeless  plain — 
An  old  log  cabin,  with  sagging  door. 
Its  roof,  all  crumbling,  allows  the  rain 

To  trickle  in  on  the  rough  slab  floor. 
Where  warmth  and  comfort  were  one  time  known, 

And  faces  smiled  in  the  backlog's  blaze, 
Deep  silence  broods,  for  good  cheer  has  flown, 
And  left  but  an  echo  of  former  days. 

Who  knows  the  story  of  faith  and  hope, 

Of  days  of  labor  and  weary  toil, 
Of  those,  mayhap,  from  an  eastern  slope, 

Who  came  to  nurture  the  virgin  soil? 
Who  knows  the  struggle  for  life  and  bread, 

Of  years  of  waiting  for  wealth  to  come, 
Of  those  who  labored  till  courage  fled, 

On  the  boundless  prairie  to  make  a  home? 

The  voices  of  children  were  doubtless  heard 

In  merry  laughter  and  happy  song. 
Perchance  hearts  ached  for  a  cheery  word, 

And  a  friendly  face,  as  they  toiled  along. 


79 


THE  OLD  LOG  CABIN 

But  none  can  tell  of  the  hopes  and  fears, 

Of  the  dreams  they  dreamed  as  the  days  sped  by, 

Of  their  simple  joys  through  the  lonely  years, 
Till  wealth  each  want  should  at  last  supply. 

But  the  fire  is  cold  on  the  hearthstone  drear, 

And  the  door  swings  idly,  by  breezes  stirred ; 
Where  once  was  the  presence  of  warmth  and  cheer, 

Now  desolate  echoes  alone  are  heard. 
But  none  may  fathom  the  luckless  tale, 

And  none  the  secrets  may  ever  gain, 
Of  that  old  log  cabin  beside  the  trail 

In  the  lonely  heart  of  a  treeless  plain. 


80 


"PONY  BOB'S"  RANGE  SERMON 

THE  prod  got  sick  of  the  old  home  ranch, 
Where  life  was  dull  and  slow, 
And  he  longed  to  hike  for  the  city  streets, 

And  paint  things  a  crimson  glow. 
So  he  axed  his  dad  for  a  bunch  of  coin 

'Cuz  his  cowboy  days  was  done, 
Said  he,  "I'm  sick  of  the  sagebrush  flats, 
And  hankerin'  fer  some  fun!" 

So  the  old  gent  give  him  what  was  due, 

And  the  prod  he  hit  the  trail, 
And  made  Rome  howl  fer  a  month  or  two, 

Till  his  wad  begun  to  fail. 
He  boozed  around  with  the  painted  dames, 

And  blew  in  every  cent, 
And  they  kicked  him  out  of  the  Yeller  Dog 

When  his  last  red  bean  was  spent. 

The  prod  he  woke  to  the  truth  at  last, 
And  bawled,  "What  shall  I  do?" 

His  kale  was  gone  and  his  friends  had  left, 
And  the  prod  was  homesick,  too. 


81 


'TONY  BOB'S"  RANGE  SERMON 

His  stomach  cried  for  a  little  chuck, 
And  he  wailed,  "A  job  fer  mine!" 

And  he  struck  a  place  on  a  Jonah  ranch, 
A-herdin'  a  bunch  o'  swine ! 

It  was  dern  hard  luck,  but  the  prod  must  live, 

And  the  busted  profligate 
Was  glad  to  chaw  on  the  husks  o'  corn 

That  the  hungry  porkers  ate. 
But  soon  he  moaned,  "I'll  cut  this  out, 

And  trot  back  home  to  dad, 
'Cuz  he  has  plenty  o'  chuck,  I  know, 

And  some  to  spare,  by  gad !" 

The  old  gent  sat  in  the  ranch  house  door 

As  the  sun  sank  low  one  night, 
And  while  he  mourned  for  his  absent  boy, 

The  prod  he  hove  in  sight. 
The  old  man  yelled,  "My  son's  come  back! 

My  joy  I  cain't  conceal ! 
It's  time  for  a  feast ;  round  up  that  herd, 

And  cut  out  a  fat  young  veal !" 

So  they  ate  and  drank  to  the  prod's  return, 
And  dressed  him  in  fine,  swell  clo'es, 

And  the  prod  was  glad  he  had  jumped  his  job 
With  all  its  sorrowful  woes. 


"PONY  BOB'S"  RANGE  SERMON 

For  there  ain't  no  doubt,  when  a  cuss  is  broke, 

And  he's  shy  of  duds  and  chuck, 
That  the  old  home  ranch  is  the  best  place  yet 

That  a  busted  prod  has  struck! 


83 


THE  WEST  FOR  ME 

I   LOVE  the  peaks  with  their  snow-bound  caps;  the 
stately  mountains  grand ; 
The  pungent  smell  of  the  bending  pines  that  tower  on 

every  hand ! 
The  streams  that  leap  through  the  canyons  deep,  and  the 

wind's  low  melody — 

I  heed  their  call,  for  I  love  them  all — 'tis  the  West,  the 
West  for  me! 

I  love  the  stretches  of  desert  gray ;  the  brown  buttes  grim 

and  high; 
I  love  the  scent  of  the  sagebrush  flats ;  the  blue  of  the 

vaulted  sky ; 
The  charm  and  spell  of  each  draw  and  swell,  and  the 

shifting  sand-dunes  free — 
They  grip  and  hold,  as  their  charms  unfold — aye,  the 

West,  the  West  for  me! 

I  love  the  trail  through  the  lonely  hills,  to  the  door  of 

the  old  log  shack, 
And  an  insist  strong  is  luring  on,  as  it  calls  and  beckons 

back! 
I  love  the  croon  of  the  low,  sweet  tune  that  sighs  through 

the  cedar  tree, 
And  the  throbbing  note  from  the  wild  bird's  throat— ah, 

the  West,  the  West  for  me ! 

84 


THE  WEST  FOR  ME 

I  love  the  herds  on  the  open  range ;  the  riders  who  guard 

them  well; 
Who  ride  like  fiends  in  the  night  stampede  through  the 

ocean  of  chaparral! 
I  love  to  dream  in  the  campfire's  gleam,  of  the  days  as 

they  used  to  be, 
And  the  stalwart  men  who  were  heroes  then — so  the 

West,  the  West  for  me ! 

Oh,  the  boundless  West,  and  the  wild,  free  life  that  is 

spent  in  the  open  air, 
With  the  handiwork  of  the  God  of  All  in  the  plains  and 

the  mountains  there! 
I  love  the  sweep  of  the  streams  that  creep  from  the  hills 

to  the  throbbing  sea, 
And  I  hear  their  call  as  the  shadows  fall — oh,  the  West, 

the  West  for  me ! 


85 


THE  OLD  TRAPPER  SPEAKS 

I'VE  taken  toll  from  ev'ry  stream  that  held  a  furry 
prize, 

But  now  my  traps  are  rustin'  in  the  sun; 
Whar'  once  the  broad,  free  ranges,  wild,  unbroken,  met 

my  eyes, 

Their  acres  have  been  civilized  and  won. 
The  deer  have  left  the  bottom-lands;  the  antelope  the 

plain, 

And  the  howlin'  of  the  wolf  no  more  I  hear; 
But  the  busy  sounds  of  commerce  warn  me  of  an  alien 

reign, 
As  the  saw  and  hammer  echo  in  my  ear. 

I've  lived  to  see  the  prairie  soil  a-sproutin'  schools  and 

stores, 

And  wire  fences  stretch  on  ev'ry  hand; 
I've  seen  the  nesters  crowdin'  in  from  distant   foreign 

shores, 

And  the  hated  railroads  creep  across  the  land ! 
My  heart  has  burned  within  me,  and  my  eyes  have  misty 

grown, 

As  Progress  came — unbidden — to  my  shack  ; 
My  streams  have  all  been  harnessed  and  my  conquest 

overthrown, 
And  I've  been  pushed  aside  and  crowded  back! 


THE  OLD  TRAPPER  SPEAKS 

I've  seen  men  come  with  customs  and  with  manners  new 
and  strange, 

To  take  the  lands  which  I  have  fought  to  hold; 
I've  watched  the  white-topped  wagons  joltin'  off  across 
the  range, 

With  those  who  sought  to  lure  the  hidden  gold. 
I've  seen  the  red  man  vanquished,  and  the  buffalo  depart, 

And  cow-men  take  the  land  which  they  possessed  ; 
And  now  there's  somethin'  tuggin'  an  a-pullin'  at  my  heart, 

And  biddin'  me  "move  onward"  to'rds  the  west ! 

Thar'  ain't  no  elbow-room  no  more  to  circulate  around, 

Sence  Civ'lization  stopped  beside  my  door ; 
I'll  pack  my  kit  and  rifle  and  I'll  seek  new  stompin'- 
ground 

Whar'  things  is  like  they  was  in  days  o'  yore. 
I've  heerd  the  mountains  whisper,  and  the  old,  free,  wild 
life  calls 

Whar'  men  and  Progress  never  yet  have  trod, 
And  I'll  go  back  to  worship  in  my  rugged  canyon-walls, 

Whar'  the  pine  trees  croon  and  Nature  is  my  God! 


87 


WYOMING 

I'LL  give  to  you  the  whole  round  earth, 
And  all  there  is  within  it — 
Just  take  it  all  for  what  it's  worth, 

This  very  blessed  minute, 
If  you'll  leave  me  one  little  spot 

Out  there  beyond  the  gloaming — 
The  only  Homeland  that  I've  got — 
My  glorious  old  Wyoming! 

'Way  up  beyond  the  smoke  that  palls, 

Your  peaks  rise,  white  and  hoary, 
And  on  the  crooning  breeze  there  falls 

The  music  of  your  glory. 
'Tis  there  my  feet  would  fondly  turn, 

'Tis  there  my  thoughts  go  roaming, 
And  for  your  peaks  and  plains  I  yearn, 

My  glorious  old  Wyoming! 

Your  wide,  free  ranges  stretch  away, 

And  call  and  beckon  to  me ; 
In  all  my  visions  through  the  day, 

Your  azure  skies  pursue  me. 
I  long  for  your  wild  canyon  deeps, 

Where  mountain  streams  go  foaming, 
Out  where  the  sunset  glory  creeps, 

My  glorious  old  Wyoming! 

88 


WYOMING 

For  me  no  spot  can  quite  compare 

With  your  cloud-capped  expanses; 
I  love  your  rocky  ranges  there, 

Where  soft  the  sunlight  glances. 
I  love  your  sagebrush-covered  plains, 

Where  mighty  herds  are  roaming, 
And  every  spot  where  beauty  reigns, 

My  glorious  old  Wyoming! 

Your  stalwart  sons  have  turned  the  sod, 

And  lo !  fat  fields  are  gleaming ! 
Where  once  fierce  tribes  of  red  men  trod, 

With  progress  all  is  teeming. 
I  love  your  skies  so  fair  and  blue, 

As  softly  falls  the  gloaming, 
And  my  heart  fondly  turns  to  you, 

My  glorious  old  Wyoming! 


89 


MY  OLD  SOMBRERO 

/COMRADE  of  frontier  glories, 
V^/     Relic  of  old  trail  days, 
Battered  and  weather-beaten 

Over  the  rough-hewn  ways; 
Bringing  the  breath  of  prairies 

Silvered   with  morning  dew — 
Here's  to  you,  old  sombrero, 

Here  is  a  toast  to  you ! 

Ah,  but   sweet  memories   linger 

Over  your  well-worn  crown, 
Fragrant  with  sage  and  greasewood 

Out  on  the  hillsides  brown! 
Hark  to  the  trail-songs  yonder, 

Sung  by  a  round-up  crew ! 
Here's  to  you,  old  sombrero, 

Visions  so  dear  of  you ! 

Out  of  the  dust-clouds  rising, 

Straggles  a  trail-herd  slow, 
Winding   in   snaky   column 

Out  to  the  plains  below. 
There  is  a  glimpse  of  coulees 

Blossomed  with  flowers  new — 
Memories,  old  sombrero, 

Memories  sweet  of  you ! 

90 


MY  OLD  SOMBRERO 

There  in  your  dingy  likeness, 

Bringing  a  dream  of  home, 
Thinking  of  bunkhouse  pardners, 

Out  where  the  longhorns  roam ! 
Here  where  the  firelight  glistens, 

Memories  we'll  renew, 
Graven,  my  old  sombrero, 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  you! 

Musty  and  gray  and  drooping, 

You  hang  on  your  rusty  nail; 
Only  an  old-time  relic, 

A  dream  of  the  cattle  trail. 
But  oh,  how  the  heart-beat  quickens, 

And  golden  memories  flow, 
When  I  look  at  you,  old  sombrero, 

And  dream  of  the  Long  Ago. 


91 


THE  SHORT-GRASS  COUNTRY 

OUT  in  the  short-grass  country, 
Out  where  the  greasewood  grows, 
Out  where  the  coyote  hollers, 

Out  where  the  blizzard  blows. 
That  is  the  place  I'm  seekin', 
That  is  the  land  for  me, 
Ridin'  a-straddle 
A  cowpunch  saddle, 
Over  the  sagebrush  sea ! 

Out  in  the  short-grass  country, 

Out  on  the  mesas  brown, 
Far  from  the  rush  and  worry, 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  town. 
Out  where  it's  peace  and  quiet, 
Restful  and  calm  and  free, 
Ridin'  a-straddle 
A  cowpunch  saddle, 
Over  the  sagebrush  sea ! 

Out  in  the  short-grass  country, 
Out  where  your  pals  are  true; 

Drinkin'  the  glorious  sunshine 
Under  the  skies  of  blue. 


92 


THE  SHORT-GRASS  COUNTRY 

Out  of  your  tarp  at  daylight, 
Frisky  as  you  kin  be, 

Ridin'  a-straddle 

A  cowpunch  saddle, 
Over  the  sagebrush  sea ! 

Out  in  the  short-grass  country, 

Out  where  there's  room  to  spare  ; 
Out  where  no  smoke's  pollutin' 

The  fresh-blown  prairie  air. 
Out  where  no  street-cyars  bother, 
Out  where  yer  safe,  by  gee ! 
Ridin'  a-straddle 
A  cowpunch  saddle, 
Over  the  sagebrush  sea! 

Out  in  the  short-grass  country! 

Pardner,  say,  ain't  it  fine? 
Livin'   in   perfect    freedom, 

Out  where  the  air's  like  wine ! 
Nothin',  you  bet,  kin  beat  it ! 
Life  is  a  jubilee! 
Ridin'  a-straddle 
A  cowpunch  saddle, 
Over  the  sagebrush  sea ! 


93 


THE  DYING  COWBOY 

OL'  pal,  I'm  goin'  away  off  Yonder, 
To  the  country  that  borders  the  Great  Divide, 
An'  I've  been  dreamin'  an'  tried  to  ponder 

What's  lyin'  there  on  the  other  side. 
Do  the  hardy  fellows  who  ride  its  ranges 

Strike  trails  o'  peace  in  its  valleys  fair, 
Without  no  blizzards  or  weather  changes, 
Or  wild  stampedes  on  its  mesas  there? 

I  wonder,  too,  if  the  skies  are  bluer 

Than  those  that  shelter  us  here  below? 
An*  the  Round-up  Boss — is  he  any  truer 

Than  Jim  an'  Billy,  I'd  like  to  know  ? 
Is  there  any  chance  of  a  gun  perceedin'? 

Or  don't  six-shooters  come  into  play? 
I  reckon,  perhaps,  we're  ruther  needin' 

To  know  the  Bible  an'  how  to  pray. 

Shall  I  pack  my  chaps  an'  my  spurs  an'  saddle, 

My  ol'  sombrero  an'  blue  wool  shirt? 
Or  don't  the  bronks  that  we'll  hafto  straddle 

On  heaven's  ranges,  know  bit  or  quirt  ? 
I  s'pose  there  never  no  quicksands  lyin' 

Around  the  streams  of  that  golden  land, 
An'  never  a  howlin'  gale  defyin' 

The  heart  an'  nerve  of  its  angel  band. 

94 


THE  DYING  COWBOY 

They  say  there's  nothin'  but  peace  an'  gladness 

A-waitin'  there  for  the  boys  who  go ; 
'Cuz  the  gospel  sharps  say  there  ain't  no  badness 

Like  that  on  this  earthly  range  below. 
It  looks  to  me  like  a  sure-'nuff  winner, 

They's  no  night-ridin'  to  be  gone  through, 
An'  though  you're  branded  a  low-down  sinner, 

The  Foreman's  waitin'  to  welcome  you. 

Bend  low,  ol'  pal,  for  a  misty  shimmer 

Is  dimmin'  my  eyes,  an'  I  seem  to  see 
That  heaven  range  through  the  dusky  glimmer, 

An'  hark!  'tis  the  Foreman  a-callin'  me! 
The  songs  of  the  angel-band  so  tender, 

Drift  softly  down  through  the  chaparral — 
Goodby,  ol'  pal,  we  will  meet  Up  Yender, 

At  the  bars  of  the  heavenly  Home  Corral ! 


95 


OH,  DESERT  WINDS! 

OH,  desert  winds,  you  sing  to  me  in  accents  mild 
and  low, 
Of  stretches  green,  where  breezes  soft  go  wandering  to 

and  fro! 

You  sing  of  Springtime's  balmy  hours,  of  mesas  bloom 
ing  fair, 
Until  I  feel  the  desert  lure  that  turns  my  footsteps  there ! 

Oh,  desert  winds  so  cool  and  sweet,  with  Springtime's 

freshest  kiss, 
You  seem  to  sing,  "No  spot  on  earth  is  half  so  fair  as 

this!" 

There  is  a  cadence  in  your  song  that  lulls  and  satisfies, 
A  soothing  rhythm  to  your  croon  which   nothing  else 

supplies ! 

Oh,  desert  winds,  I  seem  to  hear  you  singing  as  you  go! 
While   perfumes    from   the   Southland    fair   in   vagrant 

breezes  blow. 
I  catch  the  scent  of  greasewood  on  the  cooling  evening 

air, 
And  I  can  tell  the  song  you  sing  which  bids  me  come 

Back  There 


OH,  DESERT  WINDS! 

Oh,  desert  winds,  which  blow  and  blow,  you  seem  to 
call  "Come  home ! 

Come — where  the  blossomed  range-grass  rolls  away  like 
billowed  foam! 

Come  back  unto  your  own  once  more!  I'm  calling, 
calling  free ! 

I'm  singing  of  the  land  you  love!  Come — rise  and  fol 
low  me!" 

Oh,  desert  winds,  my  heart  goes  out  to  your  enticing 

plea! 
I  hear  your  murmured  accents  drift  across  the  sagebrush 

sea! 

Your  beauties  rise  before  me  far  across  the  drifting  sand, 
And  bind  the  ties  which  draw  me  back  to  my  own  Desert 

Land! 


97 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

MY  cabin  walls  are  rough  and  rude, 
My  bed  is  hard ;  my  fare  is  coarse ; 
And  yet,   I  love  this  solitude, 

And  every  stream,  from  mouth  to  source! 

All  day  I  delve  for  hidden  gold— 
The  object  of  my  heart's  desire, 

And  when  the  day  is  growing  old, 
I  smoke  beside  my  pinon  fire ! 

And,  basking  in  its  cheery  blaze, 

I  watch  the  leaping  flames,  and  dream 

Of  old-time  friends  and  other  days, 
When  eyes  of  love  in  mine  did  gleam ! 

Within  the  firelight's  ruddy  cheer, 
The  voices  of  the  night  are  all 

The  sounds  which  greet  my  tired  ear, 
Or  penetrate  my  cabin  wall. 

And  when  I  seek  my  humble  bed, 
And,  wrapped  in  gentle  slumber  lie, 

The  night  winds  sing  about  my  head 
A  low-crooned,  soothing  lullaby! 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

I'm  monarch  of  this  lonely  wild! 

I  bow  the  knee  to  God  alone ! 
To  these  vast  deeps  I'm  reconciled; 

The  mountains  are  my  kingly  throne! 


99 


THE  FRONTIER  MARSHAL 

THE  frontier  marshal  wa'n't  no  saint, 
Nor  weak-kneed,  cringin'  cuss 
Who'd  knuckle  down  an'  mebby  faint 

When  in  a  shootin'  muss! 
The  thing  he  allus  learned  well  first, 

Was  how  to  turn  the  trick, 
An'  if  the  worst  should  come  to  worst, 
To  just  be  trigger-quick ! 

He  was  a  man  who  knew  the  art 

Of  handlin'  a  six-gun! 
An'  when  he  had  to  play  his  part, 

He  saw  that  'twas  well  done! 
He  allus  aimed  to  git  his  man, 

An'  he  shot  quick  an'  straight, 
Becuz  'twas  apt  to  spoil  his  plan 

To  be  a  second  late! 

He  wasn't  much  on  dress  er  looks, 

Out  in  that  frontier  land. 
He  wasn't  posted  much  on  books, 

But  he  had  nerve  an'  sand! 
An'  many  a  "bad"  man  of  the  Plains 

Who  crossed  him  in  disputes, 
Was  quickly  planted,  for  his  pains, 

Still  wearin'  of  his  boots! 

100 


THE  FRONTIER  MARSHAL 

He  was  the  majesty  of  law 

In  them  wild  border  days! 
As  quick  as  lightnin'  on  the  draw, 

When  mixed  in  shootin'  frays. 
He  was  the  bravest  of  his  clan, 

Our  homage  he  has  won! 
The  coolest,  keenest  Western  man 

That  ever  packed  a  gun ! 


101 


TO  AN  OLD  BRANDING  IRON 

YOU'RE  a  warped  and  rusty  relic  of  the  days  of 
Long  Ago, 
Ere  the  foot  of  Progress  entered  where  you  ruled  with 

iron  hand ; 
You  are  of  an  age  departed ;  of  an  epoch   none  may 

know 
Who  have  never  watched  the  conquest  that  you  made 

throughout  the  land. 
You  have  blazed  the  way  for  nesters  who  have  turned 

their  furrows  deep 
Where  the  great  herds  roamed  the  prairies,  when  you 

held  unchallenged  sway; 
You  have  seen  advancing  thousands,  with  their  goods  and 

chattels  creep 

Out  across  the  dusty  ranges  where  the  cattle  used  to 
stray. 

You  were  pioneer  and  master  in  a  region  wild  and  rough ; 
You  were  monarch  in  a  section  where  a  six-gun  was 

the  law ; 
You  were  backed  by  men  of  action  who  were  made  of 

sterner  stuff 

Than  the  country  to  the  eastward  of  their  ranges  ever 
saw. 


102 


TO  AN  OLD  BRANDING  IRON 

You  have  seen  the  cattle-barons  waxing  rich  in  cows  and 

steers 
From  the  brand  you  burned  upon  them  in  the  dusty 

old  corral, 
For  you  were  the  leading  faction  in  the  West  for  thirty 

years 

Ere  the  nesters  claimed  the  country  you  had  ruled  so 
long  and  well. 

On  a  thousand  hills  were  cattle  that  had  felt  your  smok 
ing  brand, 
And  the  draws  and  coulees  echoed  to  the  bellowing  of 

herds ; 
And  they  plowed  a  trail  behind  them  as  they  straggled 

through  the  land, 
Urged  by  sinewy  cowpunchers  who  were  careless  with 

their  words. 
By  the  onward  march  of  Progress  were  your  conquests 

held  for  naught, 
And  you  saw  the  herds  forced  slowly  from  the  lands 

which  you  had  won ; 
You   have  bowed   to  plow   and   reaper,   which   intruded 

where  you  fought, 

And  have  watched  your  thousands  scatter  toward  the 
far-off  setting  sun. 


103 


TO  AN  OLD  BRANDING  IRON 

But  the  cattle-trails  are  grassy,  and  the  herds  no  longer 

roam 

Through  the  lands  you  fought  to  conquer  from  a  sub 
tle,  cunning  foe. 
For  the  nesters  came  and  fenced  it,  and  the  spot  you 

knew  as  "home" 
Had  no  ties  to  hold  you  longer,  and  you  gladly  chose 

to  go. 
Rippling  seas  of  grain  now  ripen  where  the  puncher  rode 

the  range, 

And  the  hills  no  longer  echo  to  his  lusty  shout,  long- 
drawn  ; 
You  were  forced  to  yield  to  Progress,  with  her  customs 

new  and  strange, 
You're  a  warped  and  rusty  relic  of  a  life  forever  gone! 


104 


THE  OLD  YELLOW  SLICKER 

HOW  dear  to  my  heart  was  that  old  yellow  slicker 
I  carried  'way  back  in  my  cowpunchin'  days! 
'Twas  stiff  as  a  board,  but  I  wasn't  a  kicker 

When  it  was  a-rainin'  and  me  huntin'  "strays. " 
I  carried  it  tied  at  the  back  of  my  saddle, 

All  ready  for  blizzard  or  windstorm  or  rain, 
And  'twas  my  salvation  when  I  had  to  straddle 

My  bronc'  and  lope  out  on  the  mud-spattered  plain. 
That  old  yellow  slicker! 
That  spacious  old  slicker 
I  carried  on  many  a  round-up  campaign ! 

That  old  yellow  slicker!    'Twas  big  and  'twas  roomy; 

It  sure  kept  me  dry  when  the  rain  trickled  down. 
I  wore  it  on  night-herd  with  skies  black  and  gloomy, 
.   It  covered  me  well  from  my  feet  to  my  crown. 
No  matter  how  blusterin',  gusty  or  showery, 

No  matter  how  cold  or  unpleasant  the  storm, 
No  matter  how  sloppy  or  muddy  or  lowery, 

That  old  yellow  slicker  I  wore  kept  me  warm ! 
That  ill-fittin'  slicker ! 
That  fish-oil-soaked  slicker, 

Its  mission  it  never  yet  failed  to  perform ! 


105 


THE  OLD  YELLOW  SLICKER 

That  old  yellow  slicker  which  I  have  defended 

Hangs  there  in  the  bunkhouse  agin  the  log  wall. 
Its  mission's  fulfilled,  and  its  range  life  is  ended — 

No  more  do  the  herds  on  the  cattle-trails  call. 
But  sometimes  I  dream,  in  the  dim  summer  gloamin', 

And  there  in  the  embers  which  flicker  and  change, 
I  catch  a  faint  glimpse  of  the  herds  that  were  roamin', 

And  think  of  that  slicker  I  wore  on  the  range. 
That  battered  old  slicker! 
That  old  yellow  slicker, 

A  cattle-day  relic  I'll  never  exchange! 


106 


SUNSET  ON  THE  DESERT 


THERE  ain't  no  artist  paints  it  with  his  pallet  and 
his  brush 

Like  the  Master  Artist  does  it,  at  the  sunset  glory's  hush, 

When  the  reds  and  pinks  and  crimsons  are  a-floodin'  all 
the  skies 

With  a  hint  of  heaven's  beauties  through  the  gates  of 
Paradise. 

Oh,  there  ain't  no  daub  on  canvas  that  was  ever  yet  dis 
played 

That  can  paint  a  desert  sunset  like  the  hand  of  God  has 
made! 


How  the  colors  blend  and  soften  underneath  His  master 
hand, 

Till  they  flood  the  buttes  and  mesas  and  creep  off  across 
the  sand! 

How  the  draws  and  coulees  glinlmer  with  the  gold  He 
spills  afar, 

Flingin'  back  the  sunset's  blushes  where  the  stately  yuccas 
are! 

And  the  clouds  grow  sort  o'  filmy,  in  a  gorgeous,  crim 
son  sheen, 

Like  they  tried  to  keep  the  angels  from  a-peekin'  on  the 
scene. 


107 


SUNSET  ON  THE  DESERT 

Then  a  gorgeous  glare  of  color  seems  to  tip  the  peaks 
and  hills, 

With  a  gleamin',  golden  splendor,  which  the  Master  Ar 
tist  spills. 

And  the  mountains,  white  and  hoary,  seem  to  bend  and 
smile  at  me, 

And  the  sand-dunes  are  a-sparkle  like  a  dazzlin'  sum 
mer  sea ; 

While  the  dreary  wastes  seem  likened  to  some  stretch  of 
fairy-land, 

As  He  deftly  shows  their  luster  by  the  magic  of  His  hand. 

Then  He  draws  the  curtain  closer  by  His  varied  lights 
and  shades, 

And  paints  in  a  touch  of  purple  as  the  picture  slowly 
fades. 

And  the  brown,  bare,  arid  stretches  that  at  noon-time 
were  a-glare, 

Take  on  tints  of  wondrous  beauty  and  grow  roseate  and 
fair. 

And  I  stand  in  awe  and  wonder,  as  the  colors  flash  and 
glow, 

Tingin'  all  the  somber  desert  till  they  blend  and  over 
flow. 


108 


SUNSET  ON  THE  DESERT 

Then  the  hush  of  even  gently,  softly,  slowly  filters  down 
On  the  lonely,  dreary  mesas  and  the  hills  so  dry  and 

brown ; 
Till  the  star-world  sheds  its  luster,  and  the  moonlight 

floods  the  range, 
And  the  dark  buttes  loom  up  yonder,  grim  and  spectral- 

like  and  strange. 
And  I  drowse,  and  doze,  and  wonder  at  the  picture  I 

have  seen, 
Which   the  hand   of   God   has   painted   on   old   Mother 

Nature's  screen. 


109 


THE  OLD   BUNKHOUSE 

TT1IS  empty  and  silent,  all  sagging  and  creaking, 

A       With  windows  a-gape  to  the  breezes  that  blow. 
The  rafters  are  cobwebbed,  the  hinges  are  squeaking, 

As  idly  the  wind  swings  the  door  to  and  fro. 
The  dust  and  the  mold  have  left  visible  traces, 

The  hearthstone  is  cold  and  'tis  cheerless  and  strange, 
And  vainly  I  search  for  the  bronzed,  fearless  faces 

Of  riders  I  bunked  with  while  riding  the  range. 

I  listen  for  voices  of  old  pals  to  greet  me, 

But  out  of  the  shadows  no  echoes  I  hear. 
No  rough,  hearty  hand-clasp  of  punchers  to  meet  me, 

No  laugher  or  singing  falls  sweet  on  my  ear. 
The  pack-rats  go  scampering  boldly  around  there, 

And  squeak  their  defiance  about  the  dim  room ; 
And  nothing  but  grim  desolation  is  found  there — 

The  place  is  abandoned  to  silence  and  gloom ! 

The  empty  corrals  have  no  dust-clouds  arising, 

Where  restless  cow  ponies  are  milling  inside; 
No  loud-swearing  puncher  in  vainly  devising 

Some  means  of  subduing  a  range  outlaw's  pride. 
The  long,  straggling  columns  of  cattle  have  vanished, 

The  draws  and  the  coulees  are  empty  and  lone ; 
The  plow  and  the  reaper,  the  brand-iron  have  banished, 

No  more  is  the  saddle  the  Westerner's  throne ! 

110 


THE  OLD  BUNKHOUSE 

'Tis  only  a  relic  of  song  and  of  story — 

The  bunkhouse  that  stands  in  the  shine  and  the  rain, 
A  silent  reminder  of  cattle-day  glory, 

That  leaves  one  a  feeling  of  sadness  and  pain. 
But  often  I  think,  in  my  fireside  dreaming, 

Of  days  when  the  cowman  was  monarch  and  king, 
And  picture,  in  fancy,  the  bunkhouse  lights  gleaming, 

Where  echoed  the  trail  songs  the  cowboys  would  sing ! 


Ill 


WHERE  THE  SAGEBRUSH  BILLOWS  ROLL 


MY  mind  turns  back  on  the  beaten  track  to  the  days 
of  the  Long  Ago — 
Back  to  a  land  where  the  mountains  stand  with  their 

glistening  caps  of  snow. 
Though  far  away  from  that  land  today,  I'm  there  in  my 

heart  and  soul, 

In  the  grand  old  West  that  I  love  the  best,  where  the 
sagebrush  billows  roll. 


Again  I  seem,  in  a  misty  dream,  to  be  where  the  morning 

sun 
Shines  bright  and  fair  on  the  gray  buttes  there,  as  the 

shadows  leap  and  run 
O'er  the  mesas  wide  to  the  farther  side,  like  a  racer  to 

his  goal, 
In  the  grand  old  West  that  I  love  the  best,  where  the 

sagebrush  billows  roll. 

And  the  blossoms  nod  from  the  prairie  sod,  and  the  note 
of  the  lark  rings  clear, 

And  I  catch  a  gleam  of  a  winding  stream  that  ripples 
upon  the  ear. 

And  it  sings  a  song  as  it  speeds  along  o'er  riffle  and  rock 
and  shoal — 

A  song  of  the  West  that  I  love  the  best,  where  the  sage 
brush  billows  roll. 

112 


WHERE  THE  SAGEBRUSH  BILLOWS  ROLL 

I  lift  my  eyes  where  the  sand-dunes  rise,  and  the  desert 
lizard  crawls, 

And  I  gaze  afar  where  the  canyons  are  with  their  rough- 
hewn  granite  walls. 

Where  the  skies  are  blue  and  the  clouds  drift  through  in 
a  hazy  and  filmy  scroll, 

In  the  Golden  West  that  I  love  the  best  where  the  sage 
brush  billows  roll. 

And  the  lure  is  strong  as  the  siren  song  that  rings  in  my 
ears  today, 

And  it  beckons  me  where  the  winds  blow  free  o'er  the 
sagebrush  seas  of  gray; 

And  I'll  go  back  to  the  rough  log  shack  where  I've  lived 
in  my  heart  and  soul — 

Back  to  the  West  that  I  love  the  best,  where  the  sage 
brush  billows  roll! 


113 


FREDERIC  REMINGTON 

HE  knew  the  West  as  only  few  have  known, 
He  knew  the  men — he  knew  the  horses,  too; 
The  swarthy,  silent  trapper  all  alone, 

The  cowman — and  he  knew  what  they  could  do. 
The  range  to  him  was  as  an  open  book, 

The  peaks  and  crags  and  hills — he  knew  them  well. 
He  knew  the  secrets  in  each  canyon  brook, 
And  what  the  great  Plains  whispered  he  could  tell. 

At  his  deft  touch  the  canvas  sprang  to  life! 

It  glowed  with  all  the  colors  of  the  West; 
His  paint-tubes  told  the  horrors  of  the  strife — 

The  charge,  the  savage  war-whoop  and  the  rest. 
He  showed  the  white-topped  wagons  jolting  on, 

The  grim  and  hardy  plainsmen  as  they  rode; 
The  campfire  in  the  gray  of  early  dawn, 

The  pack-train  with  its  lashed  and  swaying  load. 

He  knew  the  cattle  and  the  brands  they  bore. 

He  drew  them  with  a  keen  and  master  hand; 
He  saw  and  saved  to  us  the  West  before 

There  passed  the  remnants  of  that  valiant  band. 
He  gave  to  us  the  cowboy — carefree,  brave, 

The  riders  of  the  range  he  pictured  true ; 
'Twas  left  for  him  their  herds  and  them  to  save, 

Ere  they  had  passed  forever  from  our  view. 

114 


FREDERIC  REMINGTON 

A  monument  to  him  who  knew  the  West! 

Whose  brush  so  deftly  told  its  every  tale ! 
The  horses  and  the  men  he  loved  the  best, 

When  he,  too,  rode  the  dusty  cattle  trail. 
A  shaft  to  him  whose  canvas  gleams  and  glows 

With  colors  of  the  life  he  loved  so  well  ; 
And  from  whose  painted  pictures  ever  flows 

A  charm  which  weaves  o'er  us  a  magic  spell! 


115 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  WEST 

I   WANT  to  go  back  where  the  greasewood  grows, 
And  the  sagebrush  smell  is  rank  and  sweet ! 
Where  the  spring-time  desert  in  beauty  glows, 

And  the  shifting  sandhills  my  vision  greet. 
I  want  to  forget  the  sight  and  sound 

Of  city  traffic  and  city  roar, 
And  hurry  away  to  my  stamping-ground 

In  God's  great  open — the  West — once  more! 

Again  I  list  to  the  pine  tree's  croon, 

And  the  mystic  murmur  of  mountain  streams, 
Which  sing  to  me  in  the  old,  sweet  tune 

I  knew  when  dreaming  my  boyhood  dreams. 
I  see  the  cabin,  with  sagging  sill, 

The  wide  fireplace,  and  the  puncheon  floor — 
The  vision  gives  me  a  homesick  thrill, 

For  Mother  stands  at  the  open  door ! 

The  lure  of  the  West!    There's  a  charm  and  spell 
That  weaves  a  web  with  each  passing  hour, 

With  a  subtle  cunning  that  none  can  tell 
Who  never  have  felt  its  magic  power. 


116 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  WEST 

And  I'll  go  back  to  my  crags  and  peaks, 

To  my  wide,  free  plains  and  the  brown  earth's  breast, 

For  the  voice  of  Nature — God's  creature — speaks, 
And  wins  me  back  to  my  love — the  West ! 


117 


A  RANGE  RIDER'S  APPEAL 

GUARD  me,  Lord,  when  I'm  a-ridin' 
'Crost  the  dusty  range  out  there, 
From  the  dangers  that  are  hidin' 
On  the  trails  so  bleak  and  bare. 
Keep  my  stumblin'  feet  from  walkin' 

In  the  quicksands  of  distress, 
And  my  outlaw  tongue  from  talkin' 
Locoed  words  of  foolishness. 

When  around  the  herd   I'm   moggin' 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
Or  'crost  lonely  mesas  joggin' 

With  no  one  but  You  in  sight 
Won't  You  ride,  Lord,  there  beside  me, 

When  I  see  the  danger  sign, 
And  through  storm  and  stampede  guide  me, 

With  Your  hand  a-holdin'  mine? 

May  the  rope  of  sin  ne'er  trip  me 

When  fer  fun  to  town  I  go  ; 
Let  the  devil's  herders  skip  me 

On  their  round-ups  here  below. 
May  my  trails  be  decked  in  beauty, 

With  the  blossoms  of  Your  love; 
May  I  see,  and  do,  my  duty 

Ere  I  ride  the  range  above. 

118 


A  RANGE  RIDER'S  APPEAL 

Let  me  treat  my  foes  with  kindness, 

May  my  hands  from  blood  be  free ; 
May  I  never,  through  sheer  blindness, 

Git  the  brand  of  Cain  on  me. 
On  the  range  of  glory  feed  me, 

Guide  me  over  draw  and  swell, 
And  at  last  to  heaven  lead  me, 

Up  into  that  Home  Corral ! 


119 


THE  DESERT'S  LURE 

YOU  think  the  desert's  lonely,  pard, 
But  'tain't,  a  single  bit! 
Becuz  you  miss  it  mighty  hard 

When  you're  away  from  it. 
Its  very  vastness  seems  to  cheer 

And  lure  you  on  and  on, 
Where  rosy  streaks  of  light  appear 
To  tinge  the  east  at  dawn. 

Its  wide  wastes  thrill  you  through  and  through, 

And  o'er  its  sand  dunes  deep 
The  sagebrush  billows  call  to  you 

Off  where  the  dim  trails  creep. 
Its  cactus-covered  mesas  seem 

Like  some  fair  paradise, 
And  every  day  is  just  a  dream 

Beneath  fair,  smilin'  skies. 

And  down  along  its  parched  expanse, 

Wrhere  sluggish  rattlers  crawl, 
And  phantom  waters  gleam  and  dance, 

And  gaunt  coyotes  call, 
There's  somethin'  sayin'  to  you  "Come!" 

And  somethin'  bids  you  go, 
Becuz  those  arid  lands  are  Home — 

The  only  Home  you  know. 

120 


THE  DESERT'S  LURE 

Its  mesas  stretch  for  endless  miles, 

Far,  far  where  brown  buttes  stand, 
And  out  across  its  grim  defiles 

Gleam  ocean-waves  of  sand. 
The  yucca-blossoms  nod  snow-white, 

Amid  the  desert  bloom, 
And  on  the  star-lit  summer  night 

Drifts  rich  and  rare  perfume. 

And  so,  I  say  the  desert  wild. 

Just  weaves  a  charm  and  spell ; 
You  feel  that  you  are  Nature's  child 

When  once  you  know  it  well. 
It  beckons,  beckons  every  day, 

Beneath  blue  skies  above, 
And  in  its  own  enticin'  way 

It  wooes — and  wins — your  love! 


121 


THE  COWGIRL 

SHE  ain't  inclined  to'rds  lots  o'  things 
That  Eastern  gals  kin  do  up  brown ! 
She  don't  wear  jewelry  an'  rings, 

Like  them  swell  gals  that  lives  in  town. 
Her  cheeks  are  tanned  an  olive  tint 
That  shows  the  roses  hidin'  there; 
Her  eyes  are  brown,  and  there's  a  hint 
Of  midnight  in  her  wavin'  hair. 

She  don't  go  in  for  fancy  hats, 

A  wide-brimmed  Stetson  is  her  pet. 
She  has  no  use  for  puffs  and  rats, 

And  harem  skirts  would  make  her  fret. 
She  wears  a  'kerchief  'round  her  neck, 

At  breakin'  broncs  she  shows  her  sand ; 
And  at  a  round-up  she's  on  deck, 

And  twirls  a  rope  with  practiced  hand ! 

She  doesn't  know  a  thing  about 

Them  motor  cyars  that  buzz  and  whirr ; 
But  when  she  goes  a-ridin'  out, 

A  tough  cow-pony  pleases  her. 
Her  hands  are  tanned  to  match  her  cheeks, 

Her  smile  will  start  your  heart  a-whirl, 
And  when  she  looks  at  you  and  speaks, 

You  love  this  rosy,  wild  cowgirl ! 

122 


THE  COWGIRL 

She  never  saw  a  tennis  court, 

She  don't  belong  to  any  club ! 
But  she  is  keen  to  all  range  sport, 

And  she's  a  peach  at  cookin'  grub! 
She  couldn't  win  at  playin'  whist, 

She  wouldn't  think  that  bridge  was  fun, 
But  say — the  hombre  don't  exist 

That  beats  her  handlin'  a  six-gun! 

I  don't  believe  she'd  make  a  hit 

At  them  swell  afternoon  affairs ; 
She  wouldn't  feel  at  home  a  bit, 

Them  ain't  the  things  for  which  she  cares. 
She  ain't  so  keen  as  some  gals  is 

At  tryin'  stunts  that's  new  and  strange, 
But  you  kin  bet  she  knows  her  biz 

When  she's  out  on  the  cattle  range! 


123 


TO  A  "TRIANGLE"  CALF 

I'VE  chased  you  through  the  chaparral, 
An'  yelled  until  I'm  hoarse! 
I  herded  you  to  the  corral, 

An'  you  dodged  back,  o'  course ! 
I  pitched  my  rope  straight  fer  your  feet, 

An'  then  you  took  a  fall! 
The  butcher  says  you're  fit  fer  meat, 
So  bawl,  consarn  you,  bawl ! 

You've  roamed  the  range  from  sun  to  sun, 

An'  had  the  best  o'  feed ; 
You've  frisked  about  an'  had  your  fun 

With  others  of  your  breed. 
But  now  you're  fat  enough  fer  veal, 

An'  wait  the  butcher's  call ; 
You  git  the  rough  end  of  the  deal, 

But  bawl,  consarn  you,  bawl! 

My  bronc'  is  jest  a  shadder  now 

From  chasin'  you  around! 
You  had  the  darndest  way,  somehow, 

Of  gittin'  over  ground! 
You're  wearin'  the  "triangle"  brand, 

You're  fat  an'  sleek  an'  all ! 
Veal  calves  like  you  is  in  demand, 

So  bawl,  consarn  you,  bawl! 

124 


TO  A  TRIANGLE  CALF 

I've  cussed  you  high  an'  cussed  you  low, 

Conhang  your  snow-white  face ! 
I'd  cut  you  out  an'  back  you'd  go, 

To  give  me  one  more  race ! 
I  roped  you  then,  an'  had  to  laff 

To  see  you  flop  an'  sprawl! 
You're  full  o'  ginger  fer  a  calf, 

Now  bawl,  consarn  you,  bawl ! 

It  won't  be  long  afore  your  skin 

Is  hangin'  up  to  dry ! 
I  reckon  that  you'd  best  begin 

Your  prayers  afore  you  die! 
You've  been  cut  out  as  fit  to  kill, 

You  ain't  a  bit  too  small, 
So  if  you  simply  won't  keep  still, 

Why,  bawl,  consarn  you,  BAWL ! 


125 


UNREST  ON  THE  RANGE 

THIS  movin'  pitcher  bizness  it  has  got  to  quit,  by  gum ! 
'Cuz  it's  puttin'  our  cowpunchers  and  the  cowgame 
on  the  bum! 
The  boys  are  allers  kickin'  when  we  start  to  run  our 

brands, 

'Cuz  they  say  that  'rastlin'  dogies  sort  o'  dirties  up  their 
hands ! 

But  the  cowboys  like  the  movies,  'cuz  it's  diff'runt,  fer 

a  change, 

And  it's  gittin'  so  no  puncher  will  go  out  to  ride  the  range. 
'Cuz  he  gits  ten  bucks  fer  goin'  through  a  lot  o'  wild 

West  whirls, 
And  the  privilege  of  huggin'  all  the  pretty  actor-girls! 

We're  findin'  that  good  ropers  are  all-fired  hard  to  git, 

And  the  high-class  bronco-twisters  all  have  saddled  up 
and  quit! 

'Cuz  the  movie-man  corraled  'em,  and  they  draw  a  pun 
cher's  pay 

Ten  times  over  jest  fer  posin'  in  a  pitcher  ev'ry  day ! 

How  us  ol'-time  cowmen  hate  it — hate  this  movin'  pitcher 

fame! 
It's  a-sp'ilin'  all  the  punchers  that  was  in  the  cattle  game ! 


126 


UNREST  ON  THE  RANGE 

We  are  weary  of  sich  doin's,  where  they  flash  upon  the 

screen 
Lots  o'  monkey  shines  no  cow  ranch  in  the  country  ever 

seen ! 

So  we're  prayin'  that  our  punchers  will  get  sick  of  faked- 
up  strife 

And  be  yearnin'  fer  the  dangers  of  the  or-time  cowboy 
life. 

These  here  movin'  pitcher  fellers  make  us  tired — durn 
their  souls ! 

And  we'd  like  to  jerk  a  six-gun  and  jest  pump  'em  full 
o'  holes ! 


127 


ONLY  A  BRONCO 

I'M  only  a  bronco,  an  unruly  bronco, 
A  range-ridden  bronco,  wild,  scrubby  and  tough! 
I'm  bridled  and  saddled  at  daylight  and  straddled, 

I'm  larruped  and  quirted  and  used  mighty  rough ! 
They  slam  and  abuse  me,  they  daily  misuse  me, 

And  when  on  the  roundup  I  get  little  care ! 
I'm  jest  a  cow-pony,  a  pinto,  and  bony, 
But  out  on  the  ranges  I  do  my  full  share! 

I  ain't  no  prize  beauty,  but  I  know  my  duty ! 

I'm  wise  to  the  rope  and  the  tricks  of  the  trade ! 
You  bet  I'm  no  quitter!   I'll  hold  any  critter 

That  you  flip  a  rope  on,  for  I  ain't  afraid! 
No  stall  ever  held  me ;  they've  always  corraled  me, 

I  stand  in  the  sun  and  the  mud  and  the  rain, 
No  roof  to  protect  me,  and  though  they  neglect  me, 

I'm  only  a  bronco,  and  never  complain! 

Although  you  may  doubt  me,  they  can't  do  without  me, 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  my  temper  ain't  mild. 
I'm  lively  at  pitchin',  and  always  am  itchin' 

To  see  the  wild  rider  upon  me  get  piled ! 
They  never  half- feed  me,  for  they're  sure  to  need  me 

Before  I  have  browsed  on  the  grass  to  my  fill. 
And  though  they  deny  me  good  care,  they  swear  by  me, 

And  brag  of  my  toughness  and  usefulness  still. 

128 


ONLY  A  BRONCO 

I'm  only  a  bronco,  an  ornery  bronco, 

A  range-ridden  bronco  with  no  pedigree! 
I'm  jest  a  cow-pony,  a  pinto,  and  bony ! 

But  no  hawss  is  wiser  to  range-tricks  than  me ! 
No  stall  ever  held  me,  they've  always  corraled  me ; 

I'm  not  of  the  breed  of  which  hawss-raisers  sing; 
I'm  long-haired  and  shaggy,  tough-looking  and  scraggy! 

I'm  only  a  bronco — jest  one  of  the  string! 


129 


A  COWBOY'S  VERSION 

WHEN  I'm  ridin'  alone  in  the  night-time  way  out 
on  the  desolate  range, 
With  the  moon  shinin'  down  through  the  cloud-hills  and 

the  canyons  and  draws  lookin'  strange, 
And  the  shadowy  buttes  loomin'  dimly,  way  out  where 

the  coyotes  call, 

I  know  that  the  hand  of  no  human  conceived  it  and  fash 
ioned  it  all. 

When  I'm  lopin'  across  the  wide  mesa,  where  blossoms 

send  forth  sweet  perfume, 
I  know  that  an  All-Wise  Creator  had  somethin'  to  do 

with  each  bloom. 
'Cuz  no  mortal  hand  on  this  planet  could  paint  us  them 

colors,  I  know, 
Nor  spangle  the  coulees  and  foothills  with  all  the  gay 

posies  that  grow. 

I  know  that  the  green  of  the  ranges  don't  come  at  the 

biddin'  of  man. 
The  landscape  makes  all  of  them  changes  jest  through 

the  great  Creator's  plan. 
I  know  that  the  beauties  about  me — the  sunshine,  the 

blooms  and  the  rest, 
Wa'n't  put  there  by  man  and  his  helpers,  but  just  at  the 

good  Lord's  behest. 

130 


A  COWBOY'S  VERSION 

And  nights  when  I  lie  by  the  campfire  and  look  at  the 

stars  in  the  sky, 
I'm  ready  to  own  that  no  human  made  all  of  them  planets 

on  high ! 
But  only  the  Boss  of  the  heavens  reached  down  from 

His  Home  Ranch  above, 
And  moulded  and  builded  and  fashioned  the  blossoms 

and  ranges  I  love ! 


131 


TO   A  BACON  RIND 

WE  packed  you  along  when  we  tamed  the  wild  West, 
You  helped  grease  the  way  for  the  brave  pioneer ; 
Of  all  the  grub  carried,  you  sure  was  the  best, 

We  stuck  to  an'  swore  by  you,  year  after  year. 
The  cowman  came  in,  an'  your  smoky  ol'  hide 
An'  savory  smell  was  the  buckaroo's  friend; 
On  fires  of  sagebrush  your  slices  we  fried, 
An'  out  on  the  roundup  you  stuck  to  the  end ! 

We  carted  you  over  the  Santy  Fee  trail 

In  blizzards  o'  winter  an'  summery  heat, 
An'  not  fer  a  minnit,  by  jinks,  did  you  fail 

When  men  was  a-growlin'  fer  somethin'  to  eat. 
We  packed  you  along  when  we  delved  fer  the  gold 

Deep  hidden  in  canyon  an'  rocky  defile; 
The  half  of  your  worth  hasn't  ever  been  told, 

Fer  you  are  the  grub  that  was  allus  in  style. 

We  swallered  your  crispy  an'  delicate  self 

From  little  Saint  Joe  to  the  Golden  Gate  through; 
We  allus  could  rummage  around  on  the  shelf 

An'  be  mighty  sure  of  a  section  of  you ! 
You  tickled  our  palate  in  cabin  an'  tent, 

You  furnished  us  joy  in  a  desolate  land ; 
As  long  as  we  had  you,  the  world  was  content, 

But  Lord  !  how  we  kicked  if  you  wasn't  on  hand ! 

132 


TO  A  BACON  RIND 

'Tis  well,  in  a  way,  to  give  praise  to  the  men 

Who  trailed  it  through  desert  an'  mountain  an'  plain ; 
To  sing  of  their  glories  again  an'  again, 

Accomplished  in  many  a  thrillin'  campaign. 
An'  yet,  in  these  stories  of  Western  conquest, 

Let's  put  in  some  credit — a  little,  at  least, 
To  that  which  kept  hope  in  the  pioneer's  breast — 

The  hope  which  Ol'  Bacon  so  fearlessly  greased. 


133 


THE  MIRAGE 

OVER  the  sun-scorched,  glaring  sand, 
Under  a  pitiless  molten  sky, 
Luring  on  with  a  mocking  hand, 

Over  the  stretches  white-hot  and  dry. 
Painting  a  picture  of  rippling  streams, 
Grassy  valleys  and  cooling  shade — 
There  in  the  desert  it  glows  and  gleams, 
In  magic  beauty,  but  false,  arrayed. 

Out  in  the  withering,  vast  expanse, 

Parched  and  shriveled  and  dead  and  bare, 
Out  where  the  shimmering  heat-waves  dance, 

The  wraith  of  the  desert  gleams  on  the  air. 
It  lures  and  calls  in  enticing  strains, 

As  its  waters  lave  on  a  shining  shore ; 
It  whispers  of  billowy,  fertile  plains, 

And  bloom-decked  hills  I  would  fain  explore. 

Over  the  stunted  sagebrush  sea, 

Under  a  glimmering,  sweltering  sun, 
It  beckons,  beckons  and  smiles  at  me, 

As  its  cruel,  deceiving  waters  run. 
Only  the  ghost  of  a  green-clad  vale, 

A  desert  spectre  that  lures  and  snares; 
It  calls  me  over  a  death-marked  trail, 

Into  a  furnace  that  seethes  and  glares! 

134 


THE  MIRAGE 

It  fades  and  dies  as  I  reel  ahead 

Over  the  arid  and  burning  waste — 
A  picture  of  beauty  an  instant  spread, 

And  then  forever  from  sight  effaced. 
But  over  its  bosom,  hell-hot  and  white, 

The  bones  of  many  are  bleaching  bare, 
Who  turned  aside  at  the  luring  sight 

In  the  painted  depths  of  the  desert's  glare. 


135 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  WEST 

WHERE   the   grass-lands   roll  in   stretches  like  an 
endless,  tossing  sea, 
To  the  mountains  white  and  hoary,  over  ranges  wide  and 

free, 
Where  the  country  lies  unbroken,  and  soft  prairie  breezes 

blow, 
It  is  there  my  heart  turns  fondly  and  the  siren  bids  me 

go- 
It  is  far  from  cares  and  worries  and  the  sordid  haunts 

of  man, 
And  the  ceaseless  rush  and  turmoil  of  the  money-making 

clan. 

Only  peace  and  gladness  linger  'round  its  quiet  solitudes, 
For  the  grasping  hand  of  Progress  on  its  border  ne'er 

intrudes. 

My  country,  fair  and  shining,  lies  where  sunset's  glory 
gleams, 

Over  mountain-tops  and  mesas  and  along  smooth,  wind 
ing  streams ; 

Where  the  sagebrush  and  the  greasewood  fling  their  sweet 
perfume  afar, 

And  the  cow-men  watch  their  trail-herds  by  the  blazing 
evening  star. 


136 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  WEST 

I  see  it  every  evening  in  the  dreams  which  come  to  me — 
My  glorious  Western  homeland  across  the  sagebrush  sea ! 
It  lures  my  thoughts  off  yonder,  where  soft  the  twilights 

fall, 
Where  hearts  are  true  and  tender,  and  prairie  breezes 

call. 

And  I  must  rise  and  answer,  for  the  lure  is  ever  strong ! 
It  calls  and  beckons  to  me,  and  breathes  the  West's  own 

song. 

It  sings  of  wide  horizons  and  sunny  skies  and  fair, 
Which  seem  to  smile  upon  me  and  turn  my  footsteps 

there. 


137 


OUR  FADING  CHARACTERS 

THE  West  is  no  longer  the  wild,  woolly  place 
That  it  was  in  the  rough  days  of  yore; 
Time  was  when  the  bullets  were  flying  through  space, 

But  you  don't  see  it  now  any  more. 
The  cowboy  has  vanished,  as  everyone  knows, 

And  roundups  and  brandings  have  ceased; 
You  see  him  now  only  in  fifty-cent  shows 
'Neath  circus  tents,  back  in  the  East. 

The  whoop  of  the  savage  no  longer  is  heard, 

As  he  lifted  some  emigrant's  hair; 
Our  blood,  by  his  slaughter,  no  longer  is  stirred, 

As  it  was  in  the  palmy  days  there. 
Today,  in  the  East,  Lo  is  now  at  his  best, 

Where  with  squaw  and  pappoose  he  is  seen 
Posing  daily  in  dramas  depicting  the  West, 

In  front  of  a  picture  machine! 

Time  was  when  the  buckskin-fringed  hero  stalked  by 

With  a  couple  of  guns,  on  parade ; 
And  nobody  stopped  him,  or  questioned  him  why 

With  such  arsenal  he  was  arrayed. 
But  the  time  soon  arrived  when  the  scout  had  to  go, 

And  his  whereabouts  were  not  discussed. 
For  we  know  he  signed  up  with  a  blood-curdling  show, 

And  draws  pay  from  the  theatre  trust! 

138 


OUR  FADING  CHARACTERS 

Oh,  yes,  there's  a  change  in  the  West  of  today, 

And  the  heroes  of  old  are  no  more. 
Six-shooters  and  spurs  both  have  left  us  to  stay, 

Or  to  hang  in  some  curio  store. 
And  the  man  from  the  East,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 

Is  corraled  by  some  seller  of  soil, 
Who  would  load  him  with  lots  in  a  suburban  tract, 

Or  "bust"  him  through  dealings  in  oil ! 


139 


A  CORRAL  SOLILOQUY 

YOU'VE   been    roped   an'    saddled   an'   bridled   an' 
straddled, 

I've  spurred  you  an'  quirted  you,  too; 
You  squealed  an'  cavorted,  you  sunfished  an'  snorted, 

As  'round  the  corral  we  both  flew. 
Your  temper  is  sassy,  your  actions  is  classy, 

For  buckin'  you've  sure  got  an  itch ; 
I've  swore  I  will  bust  you  so  that  I  kin  trust  you, 
So  pitch,  you  ol'  pie-biter,  pitch ! 

Your  eye  is  a-fire  with  one  bad  desire — 

To  git  me  down  there  in  the  dirt ! 
Go  to  it,  ol'  feller,  there's  no  streak  o'  yeller 

Down  under  my  blue  flannel  shirt ! 

I've  met  you  an'  matched  you,  I've  larruped  an'  scratched 
you, 

You  cain't  pile  me  there  in  the  ditch! 
You  won't  be  the  winner,  you  buck-jumpin'  sinner ! 

So  pitch,  you  ol'  pie-biter,  pitch! 

You're  gruntin'  an'  lungin'  an'  squealin'  an'  plungin', 

An'  corkscrewin'  'round  like  a  top! 
You'd  sure  like  to  eat  me,  but  you  cain't  unseat  me ! 

I'll  ride  you,  ol'  hawss,  till  you  drop! 
You  are  a  jim-dandy,  you're  tough  an'  you're  sandy, 

The  way  you  go  to  it  is  rich! 
So  keep  on  a-humpin'  yer  back  up  an'  jumpin', 

An'  pitch,  you  ol'  pie-biter  pitch ! 

140 


A  CORRAL  SOLILOQUY 

You're  gittin'  some  wheezy !    You  don't  find  it  easy 

To  rattle  this  whoopin'  cowpunch ! 
In  spite  of  your  kickin',  you  see  I'm  still  stickin', 

So  lemme  jest  hand  you  a  hunch : 
You  ain't  the  fust  disgusted  cayuse  I've  busted, 

An'  rid  to  a  frazzle  an'  sich, 
If  you  only  knew  it,  you  gotta  come  to  it, 

So  pitch,  you  ol'  pie-biter,  pitch! 


141 


A  SPOILED  OUTFIT 

WE'RE  takin'  city  boarders 
Down  on  the  ol'  ranch  now, 
And  charge  'em  fancy  prices 
To  watch  us  brand  a  cow ! 
We  feed  'em  bunkhouse  fodder, 
They  bed  down  on  the  floor; 
This  ol'  ranch  ain't  a-runnin' 
The  way  it  was  no  more ! 

We  uster  rise  at  daylight 

And  be  off  on  the  range. 
We  don't  do  that  no  longer, 

And  gosh !  but  it  seems  strange. 
We  uster  eat  by  lamplight, 

But  now  we  eat  at  eight, 
Becuz  our  city  boarders 

Are  used  to  sleepin'  late. 

We  ain't  alone  no  longer 

Where  we  can  joke  and  chin  ; 
And  when  we  start  off  ridin', 

Them  boarders  all  butt  in! 
They  ask  the  durndest  questions, 

And  borry  all  our  traps, 
To  make  believe  they're  cowboys 

In  high-heeled  boots  and  chaps! 

142 


A  SPOILED  OUTFIT 

We  have  to  chaperone  'em, 

And  let  the  ranch  work  slide ! 
Them  tenderfeet  are  spoilin' 

Us  boys  who  uster  ride! 
They're  usin'  our  best  broncos, 

And  pretty  soon,  by  jing, 
A  hawss  won't  know  his  bizness 

In  any  puncher's  string! 

But  then,  the  boss  he  pays  us 

Our  money  jest  the  same 
As  if  we  was  a-workin' 

Right  at  the  cowpunch  game ! 
Of  course  it  ain't  our  bizness 

How  things  is  run,  by  gum ! 
But  darned  if  this  'ere  cow  ranch 

Ain't  goin'  on  the  bum! 


143 


CATTLE  LAND'S  FAREWELL 

THERE  ain't  no  Cattle  Land  no  more ! 
The  country's  wire-fenced! 
Things  ain't  the  way  they  was  before 

The  western  rush  commenced. 
The  open  range  that  once  we  had, 

No  more  is  grazin'  grounds; 
The  cow  game's  goin'  to  the  bad 
Since  we  are  kept  in  bounds. 

Our  herds  was  free,  in  early  days, 

To  wander  where  they  would; 
No  lines  was  set  for  them  to  graze, 

They  got  it  where  they  could. 
But  now  the  onward  march  of  Time 

Has  brought  about  a  change, 
And  Cattle  Land  brands  it  a  crime 

To  grab  another's  range! 

We  wasn't  warned  by  bands  of  wire 

Which  stretched  their  lengths  ahead, 
That  we  must  bring  our  stock  no  nigher, 

But  turn  'em  back  instead. 
We  didn't  grab  the  water-holes, 

And  hold  'em  fer  our  own ; 
The  old-time  cattle  men  had  souls — 

There  wa'n't  no  grazin'  zone ! 

144 


CATTLE  LAND'S  FAREWELL 

We  neighbored  in  a  friendly  way, 

Though  we  was  far  apart. 
Nobody  told  us  go  or  stay, 

And  we  was  big  of  heart. 
We  loved  the  lands  that  held  our  herds 

As  long  as  we  was  free, 
And  didn't  have  no  warring  words 

'Bout  what  our  rights  should  be ! 

But  now  across  our  hard-won  lands 

They've  stretched  the  wire  through, 
And  put  on  us  restrainin'  hands, 

And  told  us  what  to  do. 
We're  marchin'  down  the  Western  slope, 

'Tis  Progress  bids  us  go, 
But  in  our  breasts  the  fires  of  Hope 

Are  burnin'  dim  and  low! 


145 


i 


SPRING  IN  SAGEBRUSH 


N  Sagebrush  Land  it's  springtime,  and  the  desert  is 

a-bloom 
With   a   weave   of   wondrous  colors    from   old    Mother 

Nature's  loom ! 

Ev'ry  bronco's  feelin'  lazy  an'  inclined  to  want  to  shirk, 
An'  us  punchers  have  a   feelin'  we  would  ruther  loaf 
than  work! 


We're  a-lookin'  fer  the  roundup  to  be  startin'  pretty  quick, 
But  you  say  a  thing  about  it  an'  the  boys  commence  to 

kick! 
'Cuz  these  balmy  springtime  mornin's,  ev'rybody  wants 

to  doze, 
An'  when  we  will  start  to  gather  up  the  cattle,  goodness 

knows ! 

On  the  bunkhouse  steps  we  gather  when  the  mornin'  sun 

is  seen 
Shinin'  on  the  distant  hilltops,  where  the  grass  is  turnin' 

green. 

An'  we  sit  an'roll  the  makin's,idly  talkin',as  we  drowse, 
On  all  subjects  under  heaven  but  the  one  of  steers  an' 

cows ! 


146 


SPRING  IN  SAGEBRUSH 

We  had  ought  to  be  a-ridin'  on  the  range  a-huntin'  strays, 
But  we  feel  like  we  was  locoed  these  sunshiny  spring 
time  days ! 

The  foreman  sure  is  cussin'  at  the  lazy  way  we  do, 
But  the  range  is  shy  of  punchers — an'  we  guess  he  knows 
it,  too! 

Our  saddles  are  a-hangin'  in  the  bunkhouse  on  the  wall, 

But  we  only  grunt  o'  mornin's  when  we  hear  the  "grub- 
pile"  call ! 

'Cuz  in  Sagebrush  Land  it's  springtime,  and  us  punchers, 
in  our  hearts, 

Feel  that  we  don't  care,  by  thunder,  if  the  roundup  never 
starts ! 


147 


"CUPID"  ON  A  COW  RANCH 

A  BOSTON  gal,  the  foreman's  niece, 
Is  here  to  spend  a  month  er  two, 
An'  sence  she  come,  there  ain't  no  peace — 

The  boys  is  locoed  clean  plumb  through ! 
They  buy  b'iled  shirts  an'  fancy  socks, 

An'  try  to  sling  on  loads  o'  style, 
An'  go  to  town  an'  blow  their  rocks 
Fer  presents  every  little  while! 

I  never  seen  sich  monkey  biz 

On  this  here  cattle  ranch  afore! 
The  foreman  says  that  niece  o'  his 

Has  set  the  bunkhouse  in  a  roar! 
The  boys  they  try  to  comb  their  hair, 

An'  slick  it  up  with  ile  an'  dope! 
An'  jest  fer  plain  cow  hands,  I  swear 

They're  usin'  up  a  raft  o'  soap! 

Pink  Bates  is  shavin'  ev'ry  night ! 

An'  Shorty  goes  down  to  the  crick 
An'  scrubs  hisself  till  he's  as  white 

As  any  dood!    It  makes  me  sick! 
An'  gosh !  the  dog  they're  slingin'  on 

When  they  strut  out  to  the  corral ! 
An'  all  becuz  they're  jest  dead-gone 

On  that  swell-lookin'  Boston  gal! 

148 


"CUPID"  ON  A  COW  RANCH 

I  don't  know  how  it's  comin'  out! 

She  ain't  give  anyone  a  hunch ! 
But  you  would  think,  to  hear  'em  spout, 

That  she's  dead-stuck  on  all  the  bunch! 
I  don't  know  how  she'll  end  the  race, 

But  here  is  what  I  hope,  by  jing: 
That  she  won't  hang  around  this  place 

Until  the  roundup  starts  next  Spring! 


149 


TO  HIS  COW  HORSE 

YOU  are  homelier  than  sin! 
Wouldn't  take  no  beauty  prize ! 
You  are  scrubby  and  you're  thin, 

And  the  devil's  in  yore  eyes! 
But,  ol'  pal,  I'd  bank  on  you 

Over  any  thoroughbred, 
'Cuz  I  know  what  you  kin  do 
When  you  take  it  in  yore  head. 

When  I  tackled  you  at  first, 

You  was  somethin'  on  the  pitch! 
Per  awhile  I  got  the  worst, 

And  I  landed  in  the  ditch! 
How  you  blatted  and  you  bawled 

Buckin'  'round  the  ol'  corral, 
Wrhen  astride  your  frame  I  crawled 

And  let  out  a  cowboy  yell! 

There  is  ginger  in  you  yet, 

Though  you  stand  with  droopin'  ears! 
Oh,  you  ain't  no  slouch,  you  bet, 

When  it  comes  to  partin'  steers! 
'Course  you  ain't-  so  rrtuch  on  style, 

'Cuz  yore  rode  and  larruped  hard, 
But  I'd  hunt  a  derned  long  while 

'Fore  I  found  a  better  pard ! 

150 


TO  HIS  COW  HORSE 

Though  yore  ugly  as  the  deuce 

When  a  mean  streak  strikes  yore  skin, 
And  you  sometimes  jar  me  loose 

When  that  pitchin'  you  begin  ; 
Though  yore  looks  don't  cut  much  ice, 

You  kin  put  this  in  yore  pipe : 
Ain't  nobody  got  yore  price, 

'Cuz  you  ain't  fer  sale,  by  cripe ! 


151 


AUTUMN  ON  THE  RANGE 

OFF  across  the  wide  arroyo  sweeps  the  breezes  of 
the  fall, 

Where  the  haze  of  Injun  summer  sort  o'  lingers  over  all. 
Ev'ry  bronco  is  cavortin'  in  the  chilly  autumn  air, 
And  the  yippin'  of  their  riders  is  resoundin'  ev'rywhere. 

The  campfire  smoke  is  risin'  sort  o'  lazy-like  and  slow, 
Where  the  cook  is  busy  mixin'  up  a  batch  of  sour-bread 

dough. 
The  boys  who  rode  on  night-herd  are  a  yawnin'  in  their 

beds, 
While  the  foreman  showers  cuss-words  down  upon  their 

sleepy  heads. 

There's  a  smell  of  fryin'  bacon  as  it  sizzles  in  the  pan, 
And  the  boys'll  soon  be  lined  up  at  the  mess-box  to  a 

man. 

And  the  cups'll  be  a-clatter,  for  the  coffee's  b'ilin'  hot, 
While  the  slapjacks  that  are  bakin'  are  a-goin'  to  hit  the 

spot. 

Soon  the  dustclouds  will  be  risin'  where  the  herd  is  strag- 

glin'  through, 
And  there'll  be  some  lively  doin's  by  the  hull  blamed 

round-up  crew. 
There'll  be  runnin',  there'll  be  dodgin',  when  they  start  to 

cuttin'  out, 
And   the   sagebrush   flats   will  echo  with   the  cowman's 

lusty  shout. 

152 


AUTUMN  ON  THE  RANGE 

So  you'd  better  cord  yer  beddin'  and  then  climb  into  yer 

chaps, 
And  when  you  have  gulped  yer  coffee,  cinch  yer  latigoes 

and  straps; 
For  they're  drivin'  in  the  hawss-herd,  and  the  puncher's 

day's  begun, 
And  there's  goin'  to  be  some  sweatin'  'fore  the  brandin' 

all  is  done! 


153 


TO  HIS  PAL 

WE'VE  bunked  fer  years  together,  pal, 
An'  worked  with  many  a  round-up  crew, 
In  sagebrush  an'  in  chaparral, 

An'  where  the  dusty  greasewood  grew. 
We've  served  our  time  a-trailin'  steers, 

We've  swallowed  many  a  cow  camp's  feed, 
An'  felt  the  thunder  jar  our  ears 
On  many  a  howlin'  night  stampede. 

We've  stuck  together — you  an'  me — 

In  rain  an'  sun,  in  storm  an'  shine! 
On  many  a  wild-eyed  jamboree 

I've  saved  your  skin — as  you  hev  mine! 
We've  rode  the  trails  through  Lonesome  Land, 

With  good  ol'  pardners  of  our  rank, 
An'  many  a  steer  has  felt  the  brand 

We  seared  upon  his  quiverin'  flank ! 

When  sun-scorched  weather  burnt  us  brown, 

We  rode  the  range — jest  me  an'  you ; 
We've  shot  the  lights  all  out  in  town, 

An'  painted  things  a  crimson  hue! 
We've  faced  death  scores  o'  times,  ol'  pard, 

An'  never  flinched  in  any  fight! 
Sometimes  we  played  a  losin'  card, 

But  stayed  there  with  the  game  all  right! 

154 


TO  HIS  PAL 

Across  the  sagebrush  flats  we've  jogged, 

Out  where  the  desert  stretches  roll ; 
We've  hauled  out  many  a  steer  'twas  bogged 

While  drinkin'  at  some  water-hole. 
We've  busted  many  a  bronco's  pride, 

That  pitched  an'  bawled  an'  humped  his  back, 
An'  many  a  bacon  rind  we've  fried 

Out  in  some  lonely  ol'  line  shack! 

We've  seen  the  Western  country  change, 

An'  watched  our  wilder  customs  fade. 
We've  seen  the  sheep-men  grab  the  range 

Where  once  our  herds  of  longhorns  strayed. 
An'  now,  with  hair  that's  streaked  with  gray, 

We're  joggin'  on  to'rds  Time's  corral, 
Knee  rubbin'  knee — the  good  ol'  way — 

Jest  you  an'  me  together,  pal ! 


155 


THE  FINALE  OF  THE  PUNCHER 

WHEN  the  last  great  herd  has  vanished, 
And  the  open  range  is  gone, 
When  the  cattle  all  are  banished, 

And  their  numbers  are  withdrawn. 
When  the  brandin'  days  are  over, 

And  the  ropin'  all  is  through, 
Then  it  is  we'll  sit  and  wonder 
What's  the  cowpunch  goin'  to  do? 

When  the  cowman  comes  to  sever 

What  connections  he  had  left ; 
When  the  trail-herds  pass  forever, 

And  there  ain't  a  cayuse  left. 
When  the  ol'  chuckwagon  rumbles 

O'er  the  ridges  out  o'  view, 
And  the  cook  quits  yellin'  "Grub-pile !" 

What's  the  puncher  goin'  to  do? 

When  the  squealin',  buckin'  bronco 

Has  become  an  ol'  plow  nag, 
When  the  saddle  and  the  poncho 

Hang  up  in  an  ol'  grain  bag ; 
When  his  spurs  and  bits  are  rustin' 

And  his  gun  is  useless,  too, 
And  there's  no  more  round-ups  startin', 

What's  the  cowpunch  goin'  to  do? 

156 


THE  FINALE  OF  THE  PUNCHER 

When  the  last  night-herdin's  finished, 

And  he's  seen  his  last  stampede, 
When  the  bunkhouse  gang's  diminished, 

And  of  brand-irons  there's  no  need; 
When  the  ol'  worn  yellow  slicker 

Is  put  by  for  store-duds  new, 
And  his  chaps  have  been  discarded, 

What's  the  puncher  goin'  to  do? 

When  there  ain't  no  wild  West  longer, 

When  the  plains  are  seas  of  grain; 
And  the  nesters  crowd  in  stronger, 

Till  the  cowman  can't  remain. 
When  the  ol'  life's  but  a  vision 

To  which  he  must  bid  adieu, 
Tell  me,  oh,  my  ol'  range  pardners, 

What's  the  puncher  goin'  to  do? 


157 


MY  DESERT  FASTNESS 

I'M  in  my  desert  fastness — 
The  silent,  painted  land, 
Where  sunrise  glories  thrill  me, 

And  where,  across  the  sand, 
Gleam  splendors  which  no  painter 

But  God  Himself  can  show, 

In  changing  lights  and  shadows, 

Spilled  by  the  sunset's  glow. 

Across  the  wide  arroyos 

The  broken  buttes  rise  high, 
And  far  beyond,  the  mountains, 

Whose  white  crests  pierce  the  sky. 
The  wine-like  air  brings  to  me 

The  desert  smells  I  love — 
The  scent  of  sage  and  grease  wood 

From  mesa  lands  above. 

I'm  in  my  desert  fastness — 

A  barren  solitude — 
No  city  noises  clanging 

Outside  my  cabin  rude. 
Only  the  gentle  breezes 

Across  the  sagebrush  floor, 
In  low-crooned,  soothing  whispers, 

Drift  idly  past  my  door. 

158 


MY  DESERT  FASTNESS 

Oh,  glorious  desert  country 

Your  magic  spell  I  know ! 
Your  lure  is  strong,  resistless, 

When  from  your  depths  I  go! 
Your  wild  wastes  call  and  beckon, 

In  accents  glad  and  true, 
And  your  calm  stretches  soothe  me 

When  I  return  to  you! 


159 


A  SHATTERED  IDOL 

WHEN  first  he  struck  the  old  Bar-Z, 
I'll  own  he  looked  blamed  good  to  me. 
He  threw  a  line  of  flossy  dope 
About  how  he  could  pitch  a  rope, 
And  handed  out  some  foxy  talk 
How  he  could  make  bad  broncos  walk ; 
He  sed  he'd  rode  the  range  for  years, 
And  was  a  peach  at  handlin'  steers. 

He  did  so  much,  by  smile  and  word, 
My  tender  cowgirl  heart  was  stirred, 
And  'twasn't  very  long  till  he 
Was  all  the  time  close-herdin'  me, 
And  tryin'  hard,  by  voice  and  hand, 
To  rope  and  slap  on  me  his  brand, 
While  I  give  him  a  sort  o'  hunch 
He  was  the  boss  steer  in  the  bunch. 

He  sed  his  aunt  in  Buffalo 
Had  got  dead  oodles  of  the  dough, 
And  he  was  heir  to  all  her  cash, 
And  sometime  he  would  cut  a  dash. 
It  was  to  me  a  mild  surprise, 
When  he  gazed  down  into  my  eyes, 
And  asked  me  if  I'd  be  his  wife, 
But  I  jist  sed,  "You  betcherlife!" 


160 


A  SHATTERED  IDOL 

That  was  a  week  or  two  ago. 
Today  he  ain't  a  ghost  o'  show ! 
I  took  him  as  the  real  range  stuff, 
But  he  was  springin'  jist  a  bluff. 
I  wouldn't  marry  him,  by  jing, 
For  all  his  cash  and  ev'rything! 
He  ain't  no  good !    Our  ol'  mule,  Jack, 
Bucked  him  ker-flop  upon  his  back ! 


161 


THE  FADING  FRONTIER 

THE  old  frontier  is  fadin',  and  the  real  West  is  no 
more; 
Bucks  and  squaws  don't  hang  out  longer  down  at  the 

post  trader's  store. 

Beaded  buckskin's  been  supplanted  by  the  cheaper  calico, 
And  you've  got  to  go  to  Boston  for  a  real  wild  Western 
show. 

There  is  no  more  bronco  bustin',  to  the  clank  of  heavy 

spurs, 
And  a  round-up  comes  so  seldom  we  don't  know  when 

it  occurs. 
When  a  tenderfoot's  among  us,  he  ain't  made  to  dance 

away 
To  the  music  of  a  six-gun,  like  the  story-writers  say. 

Nowadays  there  ain't  no  ponies  lazin'  at  the  hitchin'  rack, 
While  the  cowboy  in  the  booze-joint  dallies  with  a  greasy 

pack. 
And  the  bad  men  of  the  border  they  are  all  killed  off  or 

gone, 
And   the   marshal's   job   is   easy,   'cuz  there's   no   more 

shootin'  done. 


162 


THE  FADING  FRONTIER 

Wide  sombreros  are  discarded ;  high-heeled  boots  are  out 

o'  date, 
And  the  man  who  packed  a  six-gun  cain't  keep  up  his 

old  death  rate. 
While  that  fairy  tale  you've  heered  of,  where  the  boys 

shoot  out  the  lights, 
Is  no  longer  on  the  program  as  one  of  the  drawin'  sights. 

Yes,  the  old  frontier  is  fadin',  and  the  West  has  had  its 

day; 

For  the  risin'  generation  don't  do  things  the  old-time  way. 
There's  no  graveyard  on  the  hillside  filled  with  blunderin' 

recruits 
Who've  been  planted  'neath  the  daisies  still  a-wearin'  of 

their  boots. 


163 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  DESERT 

HAVE  you  gazed  on  the  desert  when  Springtime's 
blush  was  spreading  across  the  land, 
\Yhen  a  painted  ocean  of  riotous  bloom  the  sagebrush 

stretches  spanned? 
Have  you  felt  the  breath  of  the  warm  south  wind  as  it 

crooned  to  the  mesas  fair, 

\Vhen  the  sunrise  gilded  the  broken  buttes  in  a  shimmer 
of  glory  there? 

Have  you  traversed  the  desert  when  molten  skies  were 

quivering  overhead? 
When  the  yuccas  drooped  in  the  glaring  hills,  and  the 

mesas  were  bare  and  dead? 
When  the  fevered  earth,  in  the  stifling  air,  fair  gasped 

as  it  wilted  down, 
And  the  rolling  range  was  a  withered  waste  and  the 

Yoyos  were  dry  and  brown? 

Have  you  seen  the  heavens  with  dust-clouds  dimmed,  and 

the  sun  like  a  yellow  ball, 
\Vhile  mad  winds  bellowed  across  the  sand  where  the 

creaking  freighters  crawl? 
Have  you  felt  the  sting  of  the  fearsome  gusts  and  reeled 

in  the  choking  blast, 
As  the  shrieking  tempest  caught  and  flung  the  blinding 

sand-clouds  past? 

164 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  DESERT 

Have  you  delved  for  gold  in  the  treacherous  hills,  led  on 
by  an  eager  hope? 

Have  you  felt  the  thrill  of  the  "desert  rat"  in  the  "color" 
along  the  slope? 

Have  you  staggered  over  the  arid  sands  to  the  desert- 
phantom's  gleam, 

With  a  dry  canteen  and  a  swollen  tongue,  toward  a 
mocking,  fading  stream? 

Have  you  camped  at  night  when  the  full  moon  rose  and 
silvered  the  buttes  hard  by? 

Have  you  felt  that  desolate,  lonely  hush  at  the  coyote's 
quavering  cry? 

If  you  have,  you  know  of  the  desert's  lure,  and  the  spell 
of  the  blistering  range, 

That  grips  and  holds  with  a  magic  hand,  where  the  sand- 
dunes  shift  and  change. 


165 


STANDING  ON  HIS  MERITS 

IT'S  many  a  time  I've  plugged  the  lights, 
An'  shot  holes  through  the  bar 
When  I've  rid  in  to  see  the  sights 

From  off  the  range  afar. 
I've  nicked  the  tenderfoot's  bootheels 

With  bullets  from  my  gun, 
But  I  ain't  been  mixed  up  in  deals 
Where  killin's  must  be  done. 

I  know  I've  painted  some  things  red 

When  I've  come  off  the  range, 
An'  sometimes  I  have  lost  my  head, 

An'  acted  wild  an'  strange. 
I've  rid  my  hawss  in  through  the  door 

To  git  somebody's  goat, 
But  one  thing  I  ain't  done,  fer  shore — 

I  never  sold  my  vote! 

You  cain't  blame  me  fer  gittin'  gay, 

An'  playin'  my  best  cyards, 
When  I've  spent  many  a  lonesome  day 

With  steers  an'  cows  fer  pards. 
I  may  hev  made  a  dern  big  noise, 

An'  yelled  to  beat  the  band, 
But  I  hain't  never  robbed  the  boys, 

Ner  changed  a  cowman's  brand ! 

166 


STANDING  ON  HIS  MERITS 

I  know  I  ain't  no  parlor  gent — 

That  ain't  the  range  I  browse — 
But  I  ain't  never  stole  a  cent, 

Ner  rustled  no  man's  cows. 
I  reckon  I'm  about  as  square 

As  some  swell  guy  of  rank 
Who's  wanted  by  the  sheriff  there 

Fer  bustin'  up  a  bank ! 


167 


i 


CHRISTMAS  WEEK  IN  SAGEBRUSH 


T  IS  Chris'mus  week  in  Sagebrush,  and  the  old  town's 

only  store 
Never  had,  since  it  was  opened,   such   a   run  o'   trade 

before. 

Ev'ry  rancher  is  a-blowin'  his  "dinero"  full  and  free 
Buyin'  gim-cracks  for  the  young  'uns  to  put  on  the  Chris' 
mus  tree. 


The  cowboys  ride  in  muffled  in  their  wolf-skin  coats  and 
chaps, 

And  the  rancher's  wife  is  wearin'  all  her  extry  furs  and 
wraps. 

The  roads  are  rough  and  rutty,  and  the  draws  are  full  o' 
snow, 

And  the  Sagebrush  weather  prophet  swears  it's  thirty- 
five  below. 

The  ponies  are  a-standin'  all  a-shiver  at  the  rack, 

And  they  champ  their  bits  and  nicker  for  their  riders  to 

come  back. 

Ev'ry  poker  joint  is  runnin',  and  there's  faro  and  roulette, 
And  the  booze-joints  are  a-grabbin'  all  the  punchers  they 

can  get! 


168 


CHRISTMAS  WEEK  IN  SAGEBRUSH 

The  pitcher-show  is  crowded  full  o'  riders  off  the  range, 
Who  are  watchin'  actor-cowboys  doin'  stunts  both  new 

and  strange. 
Ev'ry  film  brings  groans  and  hisses,  'cuz  those  hombres 

on  the  screen 
Go  through  lots  o'  monkey  bizness  that  no  cow  ranch 

ever  seen! 

The  town's  one  street  is  swarmin'  with  a  motley  caval 
cade, 

And  the  reservation  Injun  in  his  togs  is  on  parade. 

His  squaw  brings  lots  o'  plunder  of  the  beaded  kind  to 
sell, 

While  her  lord  goes  after  whisky — but  cain't  even  git  a 
smell ! 

From  the  dance-hall  comes  the  echoes  of  a  squeaky 
violin, 

Where  the  painted  dames  are  ropin'  all  the  whoopin'  cow 
boys  in. 

Fer  it's  Chris'mus  week  in  Sagebrush,  and  there  won't  a 
puncher  go 

Back  to  ride  the  wintry  ranges  while  he  has  a  cent  to 
blow! 


169 


ON  NIGHT  HERD 

SO-HO,  longhorns !  Quit  yer  bawlin', 
Bed  down  now,  and  be  good  steers ! 
Can't  you  hear  the  cowboys  callin', 

And  a-singin'  in  your  ears? 
You're  in  fer  a  good  ol'  cussin' 

If  you  don't  stop  rangin'  'round! 
Go  to  sleep  and  quit  yer  fussin', 
Pawin'  up  this  swell  bed-ground! 

So-ho,  longhorns !    Stop  yer  proddin' ! 

Quiet  down  and  mind  yer  boss, 
And  I'll  sing  to  you  whilst  ploddin' 

'Round  the  herd  on  my  ol'  hawss ! 
I  cain't  bawl  out  like  Caruso, 

But  I'll  try  my  level  best ! 
If  you  want  to  hear  me  do  so, 

Jest  lie  down  and  go  to  rest ! 

So-ho,  longhorns!    Stop  that  beller, 

Or  you'll  start  a  mad  stampede! 
You'd  jest  like  to  make  a  feller 

Lead  you  in  a  burst  o'  speed! 
Like  to  wake  the  boys  a-lyin' 

Back  there  by  the  fire  tonight, 
So  they'd  hafto  ride  a-flyin' 

Fer  to  stop  yer  skeery  flight. 

170 


ON  NIGHT  HERD 

So-ho,  longhorns!    Stop  that  mooin'! 

Darn  them  Diamon'  Circle  cows! 
All  they  want  to  be  a-doin' 

Is  a-rangin'  'round  to  browse! 
You  ain't  hungry;  you've  had  water 

And  you've  had  a  bully  feed. 
Lie  down,  longhorns,  like  you  oughter! 

Ain't  a  darn  thing  that  you  need! 

So-ho,  longhorns!    Now  I  wonder 

What  the  devil  is  that  noise? 
Gosh,  it  sounds  to  me  like  thunder! 

Reckon  I'd  best  wake  the  boys! 
Hi!  you  punchers!    In  yer  saddles! 

Bunch  'em  close  and  hold  'em  so ! 
Quick!  Afore  the  herd  skedaddles! 

(WOOF!)    By  hokey!   Thar'  they  go! 


171 


THE  HOMESICK   COWBOY 

I'M  tired  and  sick  of  the  city ! 
My  love  for  its  racket  has  flown. 
And  nobody  cares — that's  the  pity! 
That  I'm  here  a  stranger — alone! 
I  want  to  go  back  where  it's  quiet, 

To  the  land  that  I  know  is  the  best; 
I'm  homesick,  and  I  won't  deny  it — 
I  want  to  go  back  to  the  West! 

I'm  sick  of  New  Yawk  and  its  flurry, 

I'm  tired  of  all  of  its  noise! 
I  jest  want  to  pack  up  and  hurry 

Back  there  to  the  ranch — and  the  boys ! 
I'm  weary  of  streets  that  are  slimy! 

These  pavements  I  plumb  sure  detest ! 
I  hate  it — so  sooty  and  grimy ! 

I  want  to  go  back  to  the  West! 

I  want  to  git  out  where  the  breezes 

Ain't  smothered  by  canyons  of  brick! 
Where  a  feller  kin  do  as  he   pleases, 

With  nobody  makin'  a  kick! 
I'm  hungry  to  tackle  a  saddle; 

This  loafin',  in  town  I  detest ! 
Oh,  Gawd!  fer  a  bronco  to  straddle! 

I  want  to  go  back  to  the  West ! 

172 


THE  HOMESICK  COWBOY 

I'm  sick  of  the  grinnin'  and  guyin' 

When  folks  size  me  up  on  the  street ! 
Yes,  pard,  there  is  no  use  denyin' 

I  long  fer  a  cowpuncher's  seat ! 
The  bunkhouse  lights  seem  to  be  gleamin' 

Way  over  the  canyon's  wild  crest — 
And  me  here  alone — and  a-dreamin' 

I  want  to  go  back  to  the  West ! 

I'm  lonesome  to  hear  a  cow  bawlin', 

I'm  hungry  fer  sagebrush  and  sand! 
Fer  nights  with  the  coyotes  a-callin' 

Fer  somethin'  that's  wearin'  a  brand ! 
What  wouldn't  I  give  right  this  minnit 

To  be  on  the  range  with  the  rest, 
When  the  round-up  was  on — and  me  in  it! 

Oh,  I  want  to  go  back  to  the  West! 


173 


THE  MAN  FROM  "CHERRYCOW" 

ANEW  top  hand  blowed  in  today 
From  down  around  the  Cherrycow. 
He  started  in  to  talk — and  say ! 

You'd  thought  nobody  else  knowed  how 
To  pitch  a  rope  or  run  a  brand, 

Or  ride  a  buckin'  outlaw  nag ! 
But  he  soon  got  to  understand 

This  cow  camp  wa'n't  no  place  to  brag ! 

He  told  about  the  rides  he'd  made 

On  outlaws  no  one'd  ever  rode. 
How  he  dumb  on  and  how  he  stayed ! 

That  cuss  from  Cherrycow  sure  blowed ! 
He  had  us  all  backed  off  the  map, 

And  might  have  held  the  rep  he  claimed, 
But  for  one  fortunate  mishap 

Which  must  have  made  him  plumb  ashamed ! 

Our  foreman,  Shorty  Bates,  says  he: 

"That's  some  talk,  stranger,  that  you  spring. 
Come  down  to  the  corral  with  me, 

And  back  up  all  them  words  you  sling. 
We  got  an  ol'  blue  roan  out  here, 

And  if  you  stick  ten  jumps  on  her, 
You  git  a  job  right  through  the  year 

A-breakin'  broncs  at  sixty  per." 

174 


THE  MAN  FROM  "CHERRYCOW" 

The  man  from  Cherrycow  he  laffed, 

And  trailed  off  down  to  the  corral, 
While  Shorty  follered  him,  and  chaffed 

The  Cherrycow  bronc-peeler  well. 
"I'll  bet  ten  bones,"  says  he,  "right  now 

That  I  kin  ride  that  bronc'  and  stick !" 
And  Shorty  says  to  Cherrycow: 

"Here's  ten  that  you  cain't  do  that  trick !" 

They  roped  the  roan  and  cinched  her  tight ! 

She  bawled  and  bucked  like  all  possessed, 
But  Cherrycow  clumb  on  all  right, 

With  pride  a-bulgin'  out  his  vest. 

********** 

They're  in  the  bunkhouse  with  him  now ! 

I  reckon  doc'll  pull  him  through. 
But  there's  one  man  from  Cherrycow 

Who  bit  off  more'n  he  could  chew ! 


175 


i 


THE  WANDERER 


LONGED  for  the  throbbing  city,  with  its  hurry  and 

rush  and  all. 
The  bustle  of  constant  traffic,  and  I  thought  I  could  hear 

it  call. 

I  thought  that  I  hated  the  Open,  the  silence  and  solitude, 
Where  hushed  are  the  great  wide  stretches,  and  clamor 

does  not  intrude. 


I  dreamed  of  the  noise  of  commerce,  I  sighed  for  the 

marts  of  trade, 
Where  the  roar  of  traffic  deafens,  and  business  is  never 

stayed. 

I  looked  on  my  desert  fastness  as  liked  to  a  prison  cell, 
And  I  chafed  that  my  life  was  fettered  and  held  by  a 

changeless  spell. 

I  came  from  my  silent  ranges  and  breathed  of  the  city 

life; 
I  plunged  in  its  gayest  pleasures,  and  tasted  its  toil  and 

strife. 
I  felt  the  taint  in  my  nostrils  that  flowed  on  its  ceaseless 

tide, 
And  I  recklessly  ran  the  gamut  of  all  of  its  evil  side. 


176 


THE  WANDERER 

And  then  I  woke  from  my  dreaming,  and  saw  in  the  dis 
tance  there 

My  glorious,  wide,  free  ranges,  and  tasted  the  wine-like 
air! 

And  voices  came  drifting  to  me  from  over  the  seas  of 
sand: 

"Come  back  to  your  desert  fastness !  Come  back  to  your 
sun-kissed  land!" 

I  saw,  in  the  hazy  distance,  the  trail  to  my  cabin  door, 
And  smelled  on  the  whispered  breezes  the  scent  of  the 

sage  once  more. 
And  I  will  obey  the  summons  that  leaps  in  my  blood  and 

thrills, 
And  list  to  the  lure  that  beckons  my  heart  to  the  desert 

hills ! 


177 


THE  RANGE  COOK'S  "HOLLER" 

THEY  sing  of  the  puncher,  that  knignt  of  the  range 
who  rounds  up  the  bellerin'  steer, 
\Yho  rides  at  the  head  of  a  midnight  stampede  with  nary 

a  symptom  of  fear ; 

They  tell  of  his  skill  with  the  six-gun  and  rope,  but  no 
body  mentions  the  dub 

Who  trails  the  chuckwagon  through  desert  and  plain,  and 
never  yet  failed  with  the  grub! 

The  weather  may  find  us  in  mud  or  in  rain ;  may  bake  us 

and  sizzle  us  down, 
The  treacherous  quicksands  may  mire  us  deep,  and  the 

leaders  and  wheelers  may  drown. 
The  blizzards  may  howl  and  the  hurricane  blow,  or  Injuns 

may  camp  on  our  trail, 
But  nary  excuse  will  the  foreman  accept  for  havin'  the 

chuckwagon  fail ! 

For  off  on  the  range  is  the  puncher  who  rides  through 

buck-brush  and  sage  and  mesquite, 
With  an  appetite  fierce  for  the  bacon  we  fry  and  the 

flapjacks  we  bake  him  to  eat. 
And  we  must  be  waitin'  with  grub  smokin'  hot  when 

riders  come  clatterin'  in, 
No  matter  what  troubles  we've  bucked  up  against  or  what 

the  delays  may  have  been. 

178 


THE  RANGE  COOK'S  "HOLLER" 

So  in  singin'  yer  songs  of  the  men  of  the  Plains  who 

trailed  it  through  desert  and  pine, 
Who  roughed  it  from  Idaho's  borders  clear  down  to  the 

edge  of  the  Mexican  line, 
Don't  give  all  the  due  to  the  puncher  of  steers,  but  chip 

in  some  dope  of  the  dub 
Who  trailed  the  chuckwagon  in  sun  or  in   storm,  and 

never  yet  failed  with  the  grub! 


179 


HIS   COWGIRL  SWEETHEART 

AIN'T  she  jest  a  beauty,  stranger? 
Slickest  one  in  all  the  bunch ! 
Best  of  all,  she  says  she  loves  me, 
An'  I've  cottoned  to  the  hunch! 
She's  my  little  cowgirl — savvy? 

With  a  heart  that's  true  an'  pure! 

Got  her  corraled,  roped  an'  branded, 

Yes,  an'  hog-tied,  stranger — sure! 

Gosh !  she  was  a  little  vixen 

When  I  shied  my  rope  at  her! 
Pawed  an'  snorted  like  tarnation ! 

Bucked  like  all  possessed — yes,  sir! 
Had  to  use  some  slick  palaver 

'Fore  I  got  my  noose  on  tight! 
That's  her  lopin'  off — say,  stranger, 

Ain't  she  simply  out  o'  sight! 

Ride?   They's  nothin'  that  is  runnin' 

On  four  laigs  that  she  cain't  ride! 
Ought  to  see  her  sit  a  saddle 

When  she's  lopin'  at  my  side! 
Thar's  some  class  to  what  she  hands  'ei 

On  yer  life,  she  cain't  be  beat! 
Things  move  mucho  pronto — savvy? 

When  she  warms  a  saddle-seat! 

180 


HIS  COWGIRL  SWEETHEART 

Mavericked  'round  the  range  dern  lonely 

'Fore  I  cut  her  from  the  herd ! 
Shied  around  her  mighty  keerful! 

Too  plum'  skeered  to  say  a  word ! 
Didn't  savvy  all  her  chaffin' 

Till  I  saw  her  glad  eyes  shine 
With  the  love-light  that  was  in  'em — 

Then  I  knowed  that  she  was  mine ! 

Ain't  she  built  fer  keeps?    You  betcher! 

Talk  about  yer  slick  ones — say! 
Trim  an'  natty  as  they  make  'em ! 

She's  a  sure  swell-looker — hey? 
Got  a  step  light  as  a  fairy's ! 

Eyes  jest  like  twin  jeweled  stars! 
Thar  she  is !  That's  her  a-smilin' 

At  me  from  the  corral  bars ! 


181 


"BAD  MAN"  JONES 

BAD  MAN"  Jones  he  come  to  town 
To  have  his  yearly  spree! 
Shot  the  hull  place  up  an'  down, 

An'  sideways,  too,  by  gee! 
Cowed  the  barkeep  at  one  glance! 

An'  plugged  out  all  the  lights! 

An'  made  a  Boston  lunger  dance 

Who'd  come  to  see  the  sights! 

"Bad  Man"  Jones  he  took  the  place 

An'  run  the  marshal  out! 
Had  the  hull  dern  populace 

Plumb  skeered,  they  ain't  no  doubt ! 
Made  us  do  jest  as  he'd  choose! 

An'  when  he  ordered  drinks, 
Wasn't  no  one  dast  refuse 

To  licker  up,  by  jinks! 

"Bad  Man"  Jones  he  sure  was  game! 

He  shot  holes  ev'rywhere! 
Didn't  stop  to  take  no  aim 

When  smokin'  up  the  air! 
Shot  the  boot-heels  off'n  some, 

An'  laffed  when  they  turned  pale! 
Nary  deputy  dast  come 

An'  march  him  off  to  jail ! 

182 


"BAD  MAN"  JONES 

"Bad  Man"  Jones  he  swaggered  'round, 

A  gun  in  either  hand! 
Sheriff  tackled  him,  an'  found 

He  didn't  have  no  sand. 
"Bad  Man"  Jones  he  fired  one  shot ! 

The  sheriff  stopped  the  pill ! 
Now  he's  in  a  shady  spot 

'Way  up  there  on  Boot  Hill! 

"Bad  Man"  Jones  he  made  us  sweat ! 

But  now  his  r'eckerd's  dim! 
'Cuz  his  wife — a  suffragette — 

Got  plumb  after  him! 
Took  his  gun  right  on  the  spot, 

An'  talked  in  thunder  tones, 
An'  now  the  meekest  man  we  got 

Is  that  same  "Bad  Man"  Jones! 


183 


A  CHANGE  OF  OUTFITS 

LORD,  look  down  on  this  poor  sinner, 
Weak  and  worn  with  Satan's  brand ! 
Twenty  years  he's  been  a  winner 
Every  time  he  showed  his  hand ! 
Twenty  years  he's  kept  me  workin' 

With  his  low-lived  outfit  there, 
With  me  never  once  a-shirkin' 
From  a-doin'  my  full  share. 

Lord,  he's  had  me  noosed  and  hobbled! 

Had  me  hog-tied,  tripped  and  slung! 
All  my  best  years  he  has  gobbled 

Ev'ry  word  from  off  my  tongue. 
I  ain't  halter-broke  your  way,  Lord, 

I  ain't  never  rode  your  range, 
But  I'm  right  here  now  to  say,  Lord, 

That  I  want  to  make  a  change. 

Lord,  your  outfit  seems  to  strike  me! 

And  your  range  is  big  and  wide; 
Wonder  if  your  bunch  will  like  me, 

If  I  sign  with  them  to  ride? 
That  there  heaven-range  they've  told  me 

Don't  have  blizzards,  storm  nor  strife, 
And  is  big  enough  to  hold  me 

Fer  the  balance  of  my  life! 

184 


A  CHANGE  IN  OUTFITS 

Lord,  I'm  only  jest  a  battered 

Poor  or  maverick,  rough  and  lame! 
All  the  good  in  me  plumb  shattered, 

Greenhorn  to  this  heaven-game. 
Used  to  beddin'  down  with  sinners, 

'Sted  of  flowery  beds  of  ease ! 
Herd  me,  Lord,  with  your  beginners, 

Break  me  any  way  you  please! 

Lord,  jest  slip  your  noose  about  me! 

Draw  it  tight  and  hold  it  fast ! 
Ol'  Nick's  got  to  do  without  me! 

Herdin'-days  with  him  are  past ! 
I'll  change  outfits  with  my  saddle, 

And  a  gospel-cayuse  ride ! 
That's  the  bronc'  fer  me  to  straddle 

Till  I  cross  the  Big  Divide ! 


185 


FOREST  CONSERVATION   IN   CRIMSON 
GULCH 

WOODMAN,  spare  that  tree ! 
Touch  not  a  single  bough! 
We've  cattle  rustlers  three 

To  hang  upon  it  now ! 
Oh,  do  not  touch  a  limb! 

We're  after  Six-Gun  Lew, 
And  when  we  capture  him, 
He'll  decorate  it,  too! 

This  tree,  in  days  of  yore, 

Was  old  Judge  Lynch's  pride! 
Upon  its  branches  more 

Than  twenty  men  have  died ! 
Train-Robber  Bascom  swung 

From  that  limb  to  his  death, 
Here  Hoss-Thief  Higgins  hung 

Till  he  was  short  of  breath ! 

In  other  days  than  these, 

Within  this  sheltered  glade, 
So  many  hanging  bees 

We  held  beneath  its  shade! 
This  oak  we  will  defend ! 

Tonight  we  storm  the  jail ! 
Take  Quick-shot  Sparks  and  send 

Him  over  the  Long  Trail! 

186 


FOREST  CONSERVATION  IN  CRIMSON 
GULCH 

We  pray  that  you  will  spare 

This  hardy  tree  so  dear ! 
For  many  a  hemp  affair 

Will  be  pulled  off  right  here ! 
The  sheriff's  posse's  out 

For  Slim  Bill's  band,  you  see ; 
They'll  want  these  limbs,  no  doubt, 

To  hold  a  neck-tie  spree ! 

Woodman,  hack  it  not! 

For  to  this  tree  we  cling! 
Tomorrow  night  we've  got 

Two  bandits  who  must  swing! 
So  spare  this  tree,  we  pray, 

For  it  is  our  belief 
This  afternoon  we  may 

Hang  that  Bar-5  horse-thief ! 


187 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  RAIN 

THERE'S  a  whisper  on  the  mesa ! 
There's  a  murmur  on  the  hills! 
And  the  dusty,  dry  arroyo 

With  a  new  life  throbs  and  thrills  ! 
Where  the  range  was  bare  and  lifeless, 
And  the  sun-glare  scorched  the  plain, 
Lo!  the  brown  earth  is  rejoicing 
At  the  coming  of  the  rain ! 

The  sickly  grass  is  turning 

From  the  sodden  brown  to  green, 
Writh  the  dusty  strain  of  summer 

Disappearing  in  between ! 
From  its  long,  unbroken  slumber 

It  is  waking  once  again, 
With  a  song  of  joy  and  gladness 

At  the  coming  of  the  rain ! 

And  the  dull-eyed  herds  of  cattle 

Low  their  pleasure  at  the  change 
Which  transforms  the  lifeless  valleys 

Into  miles  of  greening  range ! 
Soon  the  blooms  will  smile  a  welcome, 

And  in  grandeur  they  will  reign, 
And  each  soft  breeze  croon  a  joy-song 

At  the  coming  of  the  rain! 

188 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  RAIN 

The  yucca-plumes  will  glisten 

Far  upon  the  mountain-height — 
Hoary  sentinels  on  duty 

In  their  gleaming  caps  of  white! 
And  the  cactus  and  the  greasewood 

Will  be  washing  off  its  stain, 
And  be  clothed  in  greening  garments 

At  the  coming  of  the  rain! 

Down  along  the  rocky  ridges 

Will  the  rain-song  sing  its  way ! 
It  will  drip  and  patter  softly 

O'er  the  sagebrush  seas  of  gray. 
And  the  whole  wide  range  so  barren, 

With  a  glory  new  will  reign, 
And  all  Nature  voice  its  rapture 

At  the  coming  of  the  rain! 


189 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  SAGE 

THERE'S  something  about  it  that  "gits  you,' 
That  lures  with  a  call  that  is  strong! 
There's  something  about  it  that  hits  you, 

That  beckons  and  draws  you  along! 
The  skies  are  a  little  bit  bluer, 

The  air  has  a  tang  of  its  own, 
And  friends  are  a  little  bit  truer 

In  the  land  where  the  sagebrush  is  grown. 

There's  something  about  it  alluring, 

That  holds  you  as  if  by  a  spell ! 
Its  glories  are  ever  enduring, 

Its  beauties  no  land  can  excel! 
The  love  for  its  plains  never  changes, 

The  charm  of  its  canyons  enthrals ; 
There's  something  about  its  wide  ranges 

That  grips  you  and  beckons  and  calls ! 

It's  mountains  and  hills  captivate  you ! 

You  look  on  its  streams  with  delight! 
Its  deserts,  somehow,  fascinate  you, 

You  love  those  grim  stretches  by  night ! 
Its  desolate  wastes  weave  about  you 

A  spell  which  you  can't  understand. 
You'll  whisper,  "I'm  lonely  without  you! 

I  want  you,  my  loved  desert  land !" 

190 


WHY  ZACK  FEELS  "CHESTY" 

ZACK  BRIGGS  is  feelin'  chesty  fer  a  plain  cow  hand, 
by  gum ! 

I  reckon  now  they's  nothin'  that'll  keep  him  here  to  h'um. 
It's  sence  his  trip  to  Sagebrush  that  Zack's  lofty  style 

began, 
'Cuz  'twas  there  he  had  a  offer  from  a  movin'  pitcher  man. 

Zack's  been  a-punchin'  cattle  on  the  Lazy-K  three  years, 
An'  we've  never  made  no  holler  at  the  way  he  handled 

steers. 
He  'tended  right  to  bizness,  an'  in  troubled  trails  wa'n't 

led, 
Till  this  movin'  pitcher  geezer  put  queer  notion  in  Zack's 

head. 

It  seems  the  pitcher  outfit  come  to  Sagebrush  t'other  day 
Fer  to  git  some  local  color  fer  a  cowboy-Injun  play. 
The  boss  he  filled  Zack's  noodle  with  a  lot  o'  guff  that's 

strange, 
An'  he  sed  the  pitcher  bizness  beat  cowpunchin'  on  the 

range. 


191 


WHY  ZACK  FEELS  "CHESTY" 

They  was  actor  guys  an'  show-girls  in  the  bunch  they 

brung  along, 
An'  the  money  that  they  offered  must  a-hit  our  Zack 

dern  strong! 

'Cuz  the  only  thing  required  was  to  play  the  leaclin'  part 
Where  the  cattle  rancher's  darter  wins  the  cowboy  hero's 

heart ! 

So  Zack,  he's  goin'  to  leave  us,  an'  he's  all  swelled  up 

with  pride, 
But  I  bet  he'll  miss  this  outfit  when  they're  startin'  out 

to  ride! 

That  'ere  movin'  pitcher  feller  don't  appeal  to  me  a  bit, 
'Cuz  I'm  'feared  he'll  raise  the  devil  with  the  rest  of  my 

outfit ! 


192 


OUT  OF  HIS  ELEMENT 

A-WALKIN'  down  yer  city  streets, 
Shet  in  by  solid  walls, 
An'  not  a  single  friend  that  greets, 

And  no  pard's  voice  that  calls, 
I  feel  more  lonesome  than  I  do 

'Way  out  there  on  the  range, 
'Cuz  everything  I  see  is  new, 
An'  ev'ry  face  is  strange. 

I'm  darned  if  I  kin  understand 

How  city  folks  gits  on ! 
It's  rush  an'  jump  to  beat  the  band, 

Till  all  o'  daylight's  gone. 
An'  after  that,  it's  come  an'  go, 

While  everything  jest  hums 
From  time  the  sun  is  sinkin'  low 

Until  the  daylight  comes ! 

Nobody  hollers  "Howdy-do!" 

Ner  stops  to  pow-wow  some! 
Nobody  cares  a  darn   fer  you, 

Ner  who  you  be,  by  gum ! 
They  elbows  you  along  right  smart, 

An'  cops  tells  you  to  "hike!" 
But  no  one  ever  makes  a  start 

To'rds  bein'  friendly-like ! 

193 


OUT  OF  HIS  ELEMENT 

I  reckon  I  wa'n't  made  to  be 

Cooped  up  in  sich  a  place, 
'Cuz  you  cain't  look  around  an'  see 

Some  ol'  pal's  friendly  face. 
Yer  sky-line  bounds  is  walls  o'  brick, 

The  air  is  damp  an'  foul ! 
It  ain't  no  wonder  that  I  kick, 

An'  raise  a  he-wolf's  howl! 

I  likes  it  best  where  elbow-room 

Is  plenty  big  an'  wide! 
Where  I  kin  glimpse  a  sea  o'  bloom 

Strung  out  on  every  side! 
Where  stampin'  ground  ain't  all  penned  in 

By  walls  an'  fences,  too ! 
And  where  folks  grabs  you  by  the  fin 

And  hollers  "Howdy-do!" 


194 


THE  GRUB-PILE  CALL 

HERE'S  lots  o'  songs  the  puncher  sang  in  roundin' 
A         up  his  herds, 

The  music  wasn't  very  grand,  an'  neither  was  the  words. 
No  op'ry  air  he  chanted  when  at  night  he  circled  'round 
A  bunch  o'  restless  longhorns  that  was  throwed  on  their 

bed-ground. 

But  any  song  the  cowboy  on  his  lonely  beat  would  bawl, 
Wa'n't  half  as  sweet  as  when  our  cook  would  start  the 
grub-pile  call.  ' 

I've  heered  'em  warble  "Ol'  Sam  Bass"  fer  hours  at  a 
time, 

I've  listened  to  the  "Dogie  Song,"  that  well-known  pun 
cher  rhyme. 

"The  Dyin'  Cowboy"  made  me  sad,  an'  "Mustang  Gray" 
brung  tears, 

While  "Little  Joe  the  Wrangler"  yet  is  ringin'  in  my  ears. 

But  of  the  songs  the  puncher  sang,  I  loved,  the  best  of  all, 

That  grand  ol'  chorus  when  the  cook  would  start  the 
grub-pile  call! 

There  wasn't  any  sound  so  sweet  in  all  the  wide  range- 
land; 

There  wa'n't  a  song  the  puncher  was  so  quick  to  under 
stand. 


195 


THE  GRUB-PILE  CALL 

No  music  that  he  ever  heard  so  filled  him  with  delight 
As  when  he  saw  the  ol'  chuck-wagon  top  a-gleamin'  white, 
An'  like  a  benediction  on  his  tired  ears  would  fall 
The  sweetest  music  ever  heard — the  welcome  grub-pile 
call! 

I've  laid  at  night  an'  listened  to  the  lowin'  of  the  steers, 

I've  heered  the  coyote's  melancholy  wail  ring  in  my  ears. 

The  croonin'  of  the  night  wind,  as  it  swept  across  the 
range, 

Was  mournful-like  an'  dreary,  an'  it  sounded  grim  an' 
strange. 

But  when  the  break  o'  day  was  near,  and  from  our  tarps 
we'd  crawl, 

The  mornin'  song  that  charmed  us  was  that  welcome  grub- 
pile  call ! 


1% 


THE  OLD  LINE  SHACK 

THERE  wasn't  much  style  about  it; 
It  hadn't  a  polished  floor, 
But  only  the  rough-hewn  lumber 

For  walls,  with  a  puncheon  floor. 
It  stood  on  a  treeless  prairie, 
Afar  from  the  beaten  track; 
'Twas  a  cowpuncher's  habitation — 
That  Three-Circle  old  line  shack. 

'Twas  the  rudest  of  western  cabins, 

Far  out  where  the  range  lands  roll, 
But  its  comfort  and  cheer  oft  sheltered 

Full  many  a  kindly  soul. 
And  often  at  night  I've  listened 

As  the  fitful  breeze  flung  back 
The  sound  of  a  coyote's  wailing, 

From  the  Three-Circle  old  line  shack. 

Oh,  many  a  trail  song  echoed 

Up  over  its  rafters  there, 
Where  the  curling  smoke-wreaths  circled 

In  the  firelight's  ruddy  glare. 
And  many  a  thrilling  story 

Was  tuned  to  the  rifle's  crack 
In  the  days  of  wild  border  troubles, 

In  the  Three-Circle  old  line  shack. 


197 


THE  OLD  LINE  SHACK 

We  welcomed  each  chance  acquaintance, 

And  gave  him  a  cheery  hail  ; 
We  sheltered  the  lonely  stranger 

Who  rode  up  the  cattle  trail. 
The  latch-string  was  ever  hanging, 

And  never  a  soul  turned  back 
Who  sought  for  a  meal  or  blanket 

At  the  Three-Circle  old  line  shack. 

I've  lived  in  palatial  mansions, 

Where  comfort  and  wealth  were  spread ; 
Where  tapestries  hung,  and  clustered 

Themselves  'round  my  downy  bed. 
But,  oh,  for  those  days  Back  Yonder, 

On  Time's  ever-shifting  track, 
With  my  pardners  who  rode  the  ranges 

From  the  Three-Circle  old  line  shack ! 


198 


REMARKS  BY  "BRONCO  BOB" 

I    WOULDN'T  make  no  Wall-street  king! 
I'm  no  financial  guy. 
I  don't  know  much  of  anything 

But  makin'  money  fly! 
But  I  kin  pitch  a  rope  an'  git 

A  steer  at  ev'ry  throw, 

An'  on  the  ranges  I  am  "it," 

'Cuz  cows  is  all  I  know ! 

I  wouldn't  make  no  parlor  gent 

Close-herdin'  gals,  that's  right! 
'Cuz  I  ain't  wuth  a  tarnal  cent 

When  wimmen  heaves  in  sight ! 
But  when  I'm  asked  to  read  a  brand, 

Or  tame  an  outlaw  hawss, 
Why,  that's  the  biz  I  understand! 

That's  where  I  am  the  boss! 

I  couldn't  sing  no  op'ry  air, 

At  that  I  ain't  no  bird, 
But  I  kin  bawl  out  purty  fair 

When  I  am  on  night  herd! 
I  don't  know  this  "II  Trovatore" 

That's  bragged  up  purty  steep, 
But  "Swannee  River,"  when   I  roar, 

Makes  cattle  go  to  sleep! 

199 


REMARKS  BY  "BRONCO  BOB" 

I  ain't  no  city  dude,  that's  sure, 

With  starched-up  shirt,  by  gee ! 
For  me  the  city  has  no  lure, 

It's  Sagebrush  Land  fer  me! 
A  hawss  that's  scrubby,  tough  an'  hard, 

An  open  range  to  roam 
With  jest  my  good  ol'  bunkhouse  pard, 

An'  I  am  right  at  home ! 

I'm  clean  stampeded  when  some  girl 

Comes  maverickin'  'round 
To  git  my  bronco  heart  a-whirl, 

An'  range  my  feedin'  ground ! 
But  when  the  brandin'  fires  gleam, 

An'  round-up  work  gits  hot, 
I  ain't  a-travelin'  in  no  dream ! 

I'm  Johnny-on-the-spot ! 


200 


MY  BUNKIE 

(To  Dr.  F.  C.  Shurtleff) 

WHO  trailed  it  with  me,  year  on  year, 
In  herdin'  longhorned  cow  an'  steer, 
But  now  ain't  any  longer  here? 

My  bunkie. 

Who  had  a  heart  so  big  an'  free 
He'd  give  his  last  durn  cent  to  me, 
Though  lackin'  stall-fed  pedigree? 

My  bunkie. 

Who  as  a  buster  was  the  boss; 
Could  tame  the  wildest  outlaw  hawss 
That  anyone  could  fetch  across? 

My  bunkie. 

Who  wouldn't  back  down,  on  a  dare, 
To  straddle  anything  with  hair, 
But  rode  it  to  a  finish  there? 

My  bunkie. 

Who  pitched  a  rope  so  skillful  that 
He  allus  got  what  he  throwed  at, 
No  matter  if  on  hill  er  flat? 

My  bunkie. 


201 


MY  BUNKIE 

Who  beat  at  poker  ev'ry  night 
Down  there  around  the  bunkhouse  light, 
But  played  a  game  'twas  square  an'  white? 

My  bunkie. 

Who  stuck  by  me  through  thick  an'  thin, 

In  ev'ry  scrap  we  figgered  in, 

An'  many  a  time  has  saved  my  skin? 

My  bunkie. 

WTho  was  the  best  ol'  pal  I  knew 

In  all  the  lone  years  we  lived  through, 

A  diamond  rough,  but  tried  an'  true? 

My  bunkie. 

Wrho  stopped  a  bullet  in  a  spree 
With  rustlers,  that  was  meant  fer  me, 
An'  died,  his  head  agin  my  knee? 

My  bunkie. 

Who  rides  the  heavenly  ranges  dim, 
'Way  up  beyond  the  star-world's  rim, 
An'  misses  me — like  I  do  him? 

My  bunkie. 


202 


THE  HOMESTEADER 

THE  homesteader  comes  from  a  land  that  is  fair, 
To  a  land  that  is  homeless  and  wide; 
The  broad,  open  prairies  stretch  out  everywhere, 

All  fenceless,  o'er  draw  and  divide. 
Within  his  sod  shack  does  the  homesteader  dream 

Of  riches  and  wealth  he  shall  win, 
And  he  schemes  and  he  plans,  in  the  firelight's  gleam, 
Of  the  treasures  his  crops  shall  bring  in. 

The  homesteader  lives  in  a  land  that  is  lone, 

Far  out  where  the  green  stretches  roll. 
No  sound  of  the  city  life  enters  his  zone, 

No  master  exacts  from  him  toll. 
The  howl  of  the  wolf,  on  the  dim,  star-lit  night, 

Is  drearily  borne  to  his  ear. 
To  follow  the  plow  is  his  only  delight, 

As  he  shapes  out  his  lonely  career. 

He  gives  to  the  soil  all  the  strength  of  the  years, 

The  soil  springs  to  life  at  his  hand, 
And  slowly  the  desolate  waste  disappears, 

And  bounties  from  God  crown  the  land. 
And  there,  in  the  blessing  of  plenty  and  peace, 

With  those  he  may  cherish  and  love, 
The  homesteader  watches  the  comforts  increase, 

Which  are  showered  on  him  from  above. 

203 


TROUBLE  FOR  THE  RANGE  COOK 

COME,  wrangle  yer  bronco  an'  saddle  him,  quick ! 
The  cook  is  in  trouble  down  there  by  the  creek! 
Oh,  cinch  up  yer  latigoes,  all  o'  you  runts, 
An'  pull  'em  so  tight  that  yer  ol'  bronco  grunts ! 
'Twill  need  all  you  punchers  the  foreman  kin  send, 
'Cuz  the  chuckwagon's  mired  down  there  at  the  bend ! 

The  cattle  are  scatterin'  over  the  plain, 

While  punchers  are  yellin'  in  language  profane! 

But  let  'em  jest  go — for  the  cook's  in  a  muss, 

An'  quicksands  are  causin'  the  feller  to  cuss! 

Oh,  this  is  the  time  ev'ry  puncher's  his  friend, 

'Cuz  the  chuckwagon's  mired  down  there  by  the  bend ! 

Come  on  with  yer  ropes  that  are  heavy  an'  stout! 
No  grub  fer  the  bunch  till  the  wagon's  pulled  out! 
It's  in  to  the  hubs,  an'  a-sinkin'  down  slow, 
An'  cookie  is  cussin'  an'  watchin'  it  go! 
Come !  hustle,  you  punchers,  an'  haul  him  to  land, 
Before  he  is  flooded  by  water  an'  sand ! 

A-strainin'  of  ropes  an'  a-gruntin'  of  nags, 

An'  woe  to  the  puncher  whose  lariat  sags ! 

It's  spur  'em  an'  quirt  'em,  an'  make  'em  lay  to! 

An' — now  she  is  movin' !     An' — hooray !  she  is  through  ! 

It's  worth  all  the  time  that  the  effort  required, 

'Cuz  it's  nothin'  to  eat  when  the  chuckwagon's  mired ! 

204 


BACK  TO  THE  RANGE 

I'VE  played  the  movin'  pitcher  game 
An'  worked  it  good  an'  hard, 
But  it  is  too  all-fired  tame 

For  real  cowpunchers,  pard ! 
Them  actor-guys  are  tender  feet 

That  never  saw  the  range, 
An'  when  they  hit  a  saddle-seat 
Their  ridin's  fierce  an'  strange! 

They  put  us  through  a  lot  o'  stunts 

That  punchers  never  do ! 
A  feller  feels  jest  like  a  dunce 

Afore  the  fillum's  through ! 
It's  mostly  jest  some  honey-mush 

About  a  gal,  by  gee ! 
It  makes  an  honest  puncher  blush, 

Sich  goin's-on  to  see! 

Becuz  out  on  the  range,  you  know, 

Around  the  chaparral, 
We  never  have  no  time  to  go 

Close-herdin'  any  gal. 
They's  too  much  chasin'  'round  fer  strays, 

Er  else  a-buildin'  fence, 
Er  branclin'  calves  on  round-up  days, 

Fer  any  sich  nonsense ! 

205 


BACK  TO  THE  RANGE 

They  ain't  a  cuss  in  all  the  bunch 

Kin  cinch  a  saddle  right ! 
'Twould  fetch  a  snort  from  a  cowpunch ! 

Their  togs  is  jest  a  fright! 
The  other  day  I  most  was  floored 

While  watchin'  of  the  boss, 
Who,  in  one  fillum,  climbed  aboard 

The  wrong  side  of  his  hawss! 

I'm  sick  of  all  sich  sights  as  those ! 

I'll  quit,  and  go  back  there 
Among  the  bunkhouse  bunch  that  knows 

The  cowboy  game  f er  fair ! 
I'll  strike  for  my  ol'  stampin'-ground 

Where  range-life  is  lived  true, 
Where  there's  no  actor-guys  around 

To  show  me  what  to  do! 


206 


THE  OLD  COWMAN 

THE  old  cowman,  with  pipe  aglow, 
Is  dreaming  of  the  past. 
Of  troubled  trails  he  used  to  know 

Where  longhorn  steers  were  massed. 
Of  lonely  hours,  rough  and  hard, 

On  ranges  wintry-blurred, 
And  stormy  nights  he  used  to  guard 
A  restless,  bawling  herd. 

The  old  cowman  can  glimpse  once  more 

The  line  camp,  far  away, 
Where  sunshine  lingered  at  the  door, 

Just  at  the  break  of  day. 
He  hears  his  "bunkie"  roaring  out 

An  olden-time  trail  song, 
And  from  the  hills  an  answering  shout 

Comes  echoing  along. 

The  old  cowman  can  close  his  eyes, 

And  see,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  punchers  off  on  yonder  rise, 

Where  branding  fires  gleam. 
He  hears  the  thud  of  restive  feet, 

The  rush  of  frantic  steers, 
Which  comes  to  him  as  music  sweet, 

Borne  back  adown  the  years! 

207 


THE  OLD  COWMAN 

The  old  cowman  looks  far  beyond 

The  mountains  white  with  snow, 
To  sloping  mesas,  fair  and  fond, 

Where  soft  the  breezes  blow. 
And  in  his  dreaming  fancy  still, 

He  hears  his  bunkie's  hail, 
While  over  ridge  and  draw  and  hill, 

Drift  herds  he  used  to  trail. 


208 


A  LOCOED  OUTFIT 

THE  new  schoolmarm  on  Bear  Paw  Creek 
Has  rosy  cheeks  an'  twinklin'  eyes ; 
She's  got  my  cowboys  all  love-sick! 
I  never  seen  sich  locoed  guys ! 

They  want  to  shave  now  ev'ry  day, 

An'  ile  their  hair  an'  change  their  clo'es ! 

The  roundup's  workin'  down  this  way, 
But  they  won't  ride,  I  don't  suppose. 

Instid  o'  blowin'  in  their  rocks 

Fer  silver  spurs  an'  guns  an'  things, 

They  buy  b'iled  shirts  an'  fancy  socks, 
Store  ties  an'  collars,  too,  by  jings! 

I  don't  suppose  it's  nothin'  strange, 
'Cuz  gals  is  scarce  around  these  parts ; 

Though  she's  ten  mile  across  the  range, 

She's  sure  stirred  my  cowpunchers'  hearts. 

If  they  go  out  a-huntin'  strays, 

Or  ridin'  fence,  they're  sure  to  roam 

To'rds  Bear  Paw  Creek,  to  ride  a  ways 
With  that  new  schoolmarm  goin'  home ! 


209 


A  LOCOED  OUTFIT 

They  sure  close-herd  that  schoolmarm  gal 
They're  lovers  that  don't  never  shirk! 

They  hang  around  her  home  corral, 
An'  do  blamed  little  cowpunch  work! 

They  moon  around  the  bunkhouse  door, 
Plumb  jealous  of  each  other,  too! 

I'm  hopin'  school  will  quit,  afore 
She  hypnotizes  'em  clean  through! 


210 


T 


THE  RANGE  IN  SPRING 


HE  grassy  trails  they  lead  me  out  where  Springtime 

breezes  fall, 
And  through  the  aisles  of  bloom  I  hear  the  Springtime 

voices  call. 
The  desert's   face  is  wreathed  in  smiles,  where  colors 

richly  blend 
Into  a  sea  of  wondrous  tints  and  beauties  without  end. 


Above  me  sunny  skies  bend  down  and  meet  the  sea  of 

bloom, 

And  prairie  zephyrs  waft  abroad  the  rarest  of  perfume! 
I  catch  the  song  of  feathered  friends  that  trill  an  echo 

sweet, 
While  sunshine's  benediction  casts  its  splendors  at  my 

feet. 

I  splash  through  muddy  streams  which  come  from  rock- 
ribbed  canyon  heights, 

And  on  the  sagebrush  flats  I  see  Spring  wonders  and 
delights. 

My  bronco  lopes  at  tireless  pace  across  the  mesas  fair, 

And  Springtime  odors  come  to  me  upon  the  soft  winds 
there. 


211 


THE  RANGE  IN  SPRING 

And  when  the  hand  of  God  is  seen  a-crimsoning  the  skies, 
And  purple  settings  flash  their  rays  as  sunset's  glory  dies, 
I  wrap  my  blanket  'round  me  there  and  watch  the  star- 
world  gleam, 
And  in  the  firelight's  ruddy  glow  I  doze  away,  and  dream ! 


212 


THE  NEW  WEST 

NO  longer  in  the  West 
Does  the  "bad  man"  ride  to  town 
With  a  gun  beneath  his  vest 

And  a  thirst  that  he  must  drown! 
The  old  frontier  has  gone, 

Men  no  longer  wade  in  gore; 
'Tis  a  newer,  brighter  dawn 
That  the  West  now  has  in  store. 

The  days  have  long  gone  by 

Since  the  men  from  Cattle  Land 
Rode  through  town  upon  the  fly, 

With  a  gun  in  either  hand! 
No  lusty  cowboy  shout 

Wakes  the  echoes,  as  in  days 
When  they  scattered  lead  about 

With  their  six-guns  all  a-blaze ! 

The  old  West's  disappeared ; 

Law  and  order  are  on  tap! 
For  the  outlaw  now  is  skeered 

To  get  out  and  start  a  scrap! 
The  graveyard  on  the  hill 

Has  no  latter-day  recruits 
Who  have  stopped  a  leaden  pill 

Still  a-wearin'  of  their  boots! 

213 


THE  NEW  WEST 

The  tenderfoot  don't  dance 

To  the  barkin'  of  a  gun ! 
For  he  doesn't  get  a  chance 

Since  the  marshal  stopped  that  fun. 
And  the  Injun  doesn't  chase 

After  scalps  of  frightened  whites, 
And  the  frontier  populace 

Doesn't  fear  to  sleep  o'  nights! 

Yes,  the  West  is  gittin'  tame 

Since  the  nester  came  to  stay ; 
It  has  lost  its  wooly  name, 

'Tis  no  longer  wild  and  gay. 
'Tis  the  reaper  and  the  plow 

Since  the  wild  life  had  to  go, 
And  you  only  see  it  now 

In  the  movin'  picture  show ! 


214 


THE  COWMAN'S  SADDLE 

IT  is  big  and  wide  and  roomy  and  it's  solid,  every  bit, 
And  there's  fifty  pounds  of  substance  in  the  makin' 

up  of  it! 

It  isn't  nothin'  fancy,  'cuz  it  ain't  made  fer  display, 
It  is  just  the  cowman's  workshop  where  he  spends  a  busy 
day. 

The  seat  is  smooth  and  shiny,  and  it's  colored  a  rich 

brown, 
'Cuz  it's  polished  on  the  roundup,  or  when  he  rides  into 

town. 

It  gits  hard  knocks  a-plenty,  and  it's  out  in  rain  and  sun, 
And  gits  throwed  around  permisc'us  when  the  puncher's 

day  is  done. 

The  latigoes  are  heavy  and  the  cinches  good  and  strong, 
So  there  won't  be  nothin'  bustin'  if  the  cowboy's  work 

goes  wrong. 
And  when  he's  settled  in  it,  you  can  bet  he  makes  things 

hum, 
And  whatever  he  may  tie  to  when  he's  ropin'  has  to  come ! 


215 


THE  COWMAN'S  SADDLE 

When  the  old  chuckwagon's  mired,  and  the  cook  begins 

to  swear, 
Then  the  puncher  and  his  saddle  and  his  rope  are  always 

there ! 
When  unlucky  steers  get  foundered,  and  are  sinkin'  in 

the  sand, 
'Tis  the  same  old  combination  hauls  the  critters  to  dry 

land! 

But  you  can  climb  aboard  it,  and  no  matter  where  you  go, 
You  will  think  you're  in  a  cradle  'cuz  the  motion  soothes 

you  so! 

And  when  you  have  ridden  in  it  fer  about  a  week,  by  jing, 
You  will  swear  the  cowman's  saddle  is  about  the  proper 

thing! 


216 


A  BUNK  HOUSE  REVERY 

HEAVEN  may  be  a  finer  place 
Than  this  rollin'  mundane  sphere, 
But  I'm  mighty  glad  I've  got 
Interests  that  keep  me  here. 
Streets  of  gold  is  mighty  nice, 

And  a  shinin'  crystal  sea, 
But  you  bet  they  don't  entice 
Earthly  charms  away  from  me! 

Mansions  built  o'  precious  stones, 

Angels  wingin'  up  and  down; 
Music  in  harmonic  tones, 

And  a  diamon'-studded  crown — 
Yes,  it  all  sounds  rather  swell, 

When  you've  quit  your  life  career, 
But  I  hope  that  fer  a  spell 

I'll  be  brandin'  cows  down  here! 

Don't  believe  that  heaven  kin  beat 

These  ol'  prairies  in  the  Spring 
When  the  birds  is  singin'  sweet, 

And  the  grass  peeps  up,  by  jing! 
Heaven  may  be  a  paradise, 

But  I'd  ruther  spend  my  hours 
Right  where  I  kin  feast  my  eyes 

On  a  range  all  decked  with  flowers! 

217 


A  BUNK  HOUSE  REVERY 

Why,  the  sun  cain't  shine,  I  know, 

Any  brighter,  way  up  there, 
And  no  fairer  breezes  blow, 

I  am  certain,  anywhere. 
And  no  pal  on  heaven's  range 

Beats  the  pard  who  shares  my  fun! 
Betcher  life  I  wouldn't  change 

Good  ol*  Slim  fer  anyone! 

Heaven  is  fine  in  lots  o'  ways, 

So  the  gospel-sharps  hev  told; 
But  I  ain't  a-huntin'  strays 

Yet  awhile,  through  streets  o'  gold. 
Don't  believe  that  heaven-spot 

With  its  angel  band  o'  white, 
And  its  harps  and  crowns  has  got 

This  ol'  earth  discounted  QUITE! 


218 


THE  WEST 

WHEN  you  have  lived  out  in  the  West 
Till  it  becomes  a  part  of  you, 
And  you've  a  feeling  in  your  breast 

No  other  spot  on  earth  will  do; 
When  you  can  call  the  desert  "home," 

And  love  the  ranges  vast  and  drear, 
Then  every  butte  and  rocky  dome, 

And  stretch  of  sage  will  grow  more  dear. 

When  every  flaming  sunset  seems 

To  hold  you  by  a  magic  spell, 
And  you  have  visions  in  your  dreams 

Of  mesa  tops  and  chaparral, 
And  when  the  rolling  prairie-land 

You  love  more  than  the  city  street, 
Then  shall  you  know  and  understand 

The  charm  which  draws  your  eager  feet. 

When  all  of  God's  great  out-of-doors 

You  worship  with  a  new  delight; 
When  rocky  ridge  and  canyon  floors 

Show  added  wonders  day  and  night ; 
When  wide,  free  plains  seem  reaching  out 

To  welcome  you  with  open  arms, 
You  will  have  learned,  without  a  doubt, 

The  secret  of  the  great  West's  charms. 

219 


THE  WEST 

When  you  can  ride  each  lengthening  trail 

Without  a  sense  of  loneliness ; 
When  every  coulee,  draw  and  swale 

Holds  beauties  which  you  would  possess ; 
Wrhen  you  can  read  the  starry  skies 

Beneath  which  you  lie  down  to  rest. 
Then  shall  you  know  and  realize 

The  fascination  of  the  West! 


220 


THE  INEVITABLE 

I'VE  packed  my  war-bag  full  o'  duds, 
I've  sacked  my  saddle,  too; 
They've  sold  the  ranch  to  city  bloods, 

And  I  am  feelin'  blue. 
The  bunkhouse  has  been  padlocked  tight ! 

It's  goodby  to  my  pards ! 
No  more  around  the  old  oil  light 
We'll  have  our  game  o'  cards ! 

And  down  there  in  the  ol'  corral 

The  dust  ain't  flyin'  thick, 
And  you  don't  hear  no  cowpunch  yell 

Whilst  watchin'  someone  stick 
Aboard  a  squealin'  outlaw's  back — 

Them  good  old  days  hev  gone ! 
And  me  and  Slim  and  Happy  Jack 

Hev  got  to  mosey  on ! 

The  range  is  shy  the  cows  and  steers 

That  roamed  about  at  will. 
I  never  heered,  in  years  and  years, 

This  old  ranch  so  durn  still ! 
They  make  me  sick — them  tender feets 

That  to  this  region  trots 
And  lays  this  old  ranch  out  in  streets, 

With  fancy  b'ildin'  lots ! 

221 


THE  INEVITABLE 

The  pony  bunch  has  all  been  sold! 

It  durn  near  makes  me  cry ; 
It  makes  me  think  I'm  gittin'  old, 

To  see  the  cow  game  die! 
I  reckon  I  must  bow  to  Fate, 

When  off  this  range  I  creep, 
And  earn  my  livin'  in  some  state 

A-herdin'  blattin'  sheep! 


222 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  RANGE 

NOTHIN'  but  man-made  canyons 
Of  mortar  and  steel  and  brick! 
Nary  a  stretch  of  open — 

Gosh!  but  it  makes  me  sick! 
Nothin'  but  roar  and  jostle; 
Only  th'  pace  that  kills! 
Gimme  th'  ol'  line  cabin 
Back  in  th'  sagebrush  hills! 

Nary  a  soft  breeze  croonin'; 

Nothin'  but  air  that's  foul, 
Smoky  and  black  and  grimy, 

And  street  cyars  that  moan  and  growl ! 
Oh,  fer  a  desert  sunrise, 

With  songs  of  th'  birds  that  thrills, 
And  th'  bunkhouse  boys  a-callin', 

Back  in  th'  sagebrush  hills! 

Rivers  of  ce-ment  pavement! 

Oceans  of  mac-a-dam! 
Nothin'  but  rush  and  bustle! 

Hurry  and  push  and  jam ! 
Wish't  I  was  with  th'  cattle, 

Out  where  the  ki-yote  shrills, 
There  in  th'  Lord's  big  open, 

Back  in  th'  sagebrush  hills ! 

223 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  RANGE 

Nobody  seems  t'  see  me, 

Though  some  of  'em  stare  dern  hard ; 
I'm  off'n  my  range,  I  reckon, 

Off'n  my  bed-ground,  pard ! 
Hanged  if  I  ain't  nigh  smothered! 

Cain't  ketch  a  breath  that  fills! 
Oh,  fer  them  coolin'  breezes 

Back  in  th'  sagebrush  hills! 

Trompin'  yer  brick-built  'royos, 

Dreamin'  of  home  sweet  home! 
Thinkin'  of  ol'  range  pardners 

Back  where  I  used  to  roam! 
Somethin'  down  here  that's  callin', 

Callin'  in  tones  that  thrills : 
"Come — to  yer  wide,  free  ranges, 

Back  in  th'  sagebrush  hills!" 


224 


HIS  TRADEMARKS 

THE  cowboy  ain't  no  dandy 
When  it  comes  to  wearin'  clo'es, 
But  when  he  trails  to  the  city, 
He'll  go  as  other  folks  goes. 
But  there's  jest  two  things  he's  wearin' 

From  which  he  never  scoots — 
He'll  stick  to  his  ol'  sombrero, 

He'll  stick  to  his  high-heeled  boots! 

He'll  tackle  a  stranglin'  collar 

That's  hitched  to  a  stiff  b'iled  shirt  ; 
He'll  discard  chaps  and  gauntlets, 

And  wash  off  the  prairie  dirt. 
But  he'll  hang  to  two  possessions, 

Though  folks  turn  up  their  snoots — 
He'll  stick  to  his  ol'  sombrero — 

He'll  stick  to  his  high-heeled  boots ! 

He'll  peel  off  his  ol'  bandana, 

And  his  overalls,  too,  he'll  drop, 
And  he'll  wear  store  duds  an'  neckties, 

And  his  ol'  blue  shirt  he'll  swap. 
But  for  jest  a  part  of  his  outfit 

He  never  has  substitutes — 
He'll  stick  to  his  ol'  sombrero — 

He'll  stick  to  his  high-heeled  boots ! 

225 


HIS  TRADEMARKS 

He'll  part  his  hair  in  the  middle, 

With  perfume  adorn  his  pelt; 
He'll  put  on  some  store  suspenders, 

Instead  of  a  ca'tridge  belt. 
He'll  lay  off  the  gun  he's  wearin' 

But  in  spite  of  the  jeers  an'  hoots, 
He'll  stick  to  his  ol'  sombrero — 

He'll  stick  to  his  high-heeled  boots! 

Oh,  yes,  he's  a  queerish  mixture 

When  in  from  the  range  he  strays, 
And  puts  on  a  town  man's  toggin's, 

And  copies  the  town  man's  ways. 
But  when  to  the  town  he's  comin', 

To  mix  with  the  dude  recruits, 
He'll  stick  to  his  ol'  sombrero — 

He'll  stick  to  his  high-heeled  boots! 


226 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  COWBOY 

THE  cowboy  game  is  busted  'cuz  the  cattle  biz  is  dead ; 
The  railroad  trains   go  tootin'   where  the   cattle 

trails  once  led. 

The  only  time  we  ever  hit  the  pace  we  uster  know 
Is  when  we're  out  performin'  for  a  movin'  pitcher  show. 

Our  chaps  and  guns  and  saddles  nowadays  are  only  seen 
When  we  are  out  a-doin'  Western  features  for  the  screen. 
We  ain't  woke  up  o'  mornin's  at  the  early  flush  o'  dawn 
To  git  out  on  the  round-up,  'cuz  the  round-up's  dead  and 
gone! 

We  are  gittin'  better  fodder  than  the  range-cook  slung  at 

us, 

Fer  the  feller  that  directs  us  is  a  decent  sort  o'  cuss. 
We  are  actor-guys  for  sartin,  and  the  pay  is  ten  a  day 
Jest  to  do  a  little  posin'  in  a  woolly  Western  play! 

There  is  Hop-a-Long  and  Happy,  me  and  Bony,  Chip 

and  Ben, 

Who  is  doin'  cowboy  features  for  the  movin'  picture  men. 
The  only  thing  axed  of  us  is  to  rescue  Cheyenne  Lou 
From  the  clutches  of  some  Injuns  that  don't  know  a  word 

o'  Sioux! 


227 


THE  MOVING  PICTURE  COWBOY 

We  are  gittin'  fat  and  sassy,  'cuz  the  job's  a  snap,  you 

bet! 
And  we  draw  our  pay,  no  matter  if  the  weather's  shine 

or  wet. 

Cowpunchin'  on  the  ranges  was  all  right  in  days  o'  yore, 
But  the  movin'  pitcher  bizness  has  it  skinned  a  mile  er 

more! 


228 


THE  DESERT  PROSPECTOR 

O'ER  miles  and  miles  of  arid  plain, 
Out  where  the  coyote  howls, 
Where  all  the  brown  earth  gasps  for  rain, 

The  old  prospector  prowls. 
No  lover  of  Progression  he, 

But  stolidly  and  grim 
He  spurns  the  towns,  and  wanders  free 
Where  desert  lands  lure  him. 

He  stumbles  o'er  the  great  divides 

In  search  for  hidden  gold, 
And  over  trackless  wastes  he  strides, 

Through  varied  heat  and  cold. 
The  summer  sun  may  scorch  and  sear, 

The  winter  chill  may  blight, 
But  on  the  ridges,  lone  and  drear, 

His  campfire  gleams  at  night. 

Alone,  glum,  moody,  silent,  stern, 

A  lover  of  the  wild, 
Back  from  the  city's  haunts  he'll  turn, 

To  his  life  reconciled. 
Now  cheered  where  prospects  lure  him  on, 

And  golden  colors  gleam, 
And  now  arising  at  the  dawn, 

To  find  it  but  a  dream! 

229 


THE  DESERT  PROSPECTOR 

Over  the  sand  dunes,  year  on  year, 

The  old  prospector  stalks! 
Lured  by  the  riches  lurking  near, 

But  which  a  harsh  fate  balks. 
Tortured  by  thirst  and  storm  and  sun, 

But  with  a  courage  bold, 
The  comforts  of  the  town  he'll  shun 

To  delve  for  hidden  gold! 


230 


A  COWPUNCH  COURTSHIP 

SHE  got  me  clean  stampeded 
An'  locoed  to  a  turn! 
I  oughtn't  to  hev  heeded 

Them  fetchin'  ways  o'  her'n. 
I  might  hev  knowed  fer  certain 

She'd  git  the  bulge  on  me, 

When  I  commenced  a-flirtin' 

With  her  so  all-fired  free. 

She  was  a  peach,  a  pippin! 

An'  'twasn't  nothin'  strange 
That  I  commenced  a-skippin' 

Across  onto  her  range. 
I  shouldn't  gone  cavortin' 

On  her  bed-ground,  I  know, 
Head  up  an'  jest  a-snortin' 

To  hog-tie  her,  you  know. 

You  see,  at  this  here  love  game, 

I  wasn't  halter-broke! 
'Twas  new  to  me — this  dove  game, 

I  liked  it— that's  no  joke ! 
An'  when  I  started  chasin' 

Around  in  her  corral, 
'Twa'n't  long  'fore  I  was  facin' 

Conditions  which  was  hell! 

231 


A  COWPUNCH  COURTSHIP 

I  told  her  I  was  ready 

To  slap  on  her  my  brand ! 
She  was  close-herded  steady 

By  this  love-sick  cow-hand. 
But  jest  when  I  was  tryin* 

To  slip  on  her  my  noose, 
Why,  she  commenced  a-shyin', 

An'  framin'  an  excuse. 

******** 

The  boys  ain't  quit  their  naggin' 

An'  rubbin'  on  my  raw! 
My  under  lip  is  saggin' 

The  wust  you  ever  saw ! 
There's  reason  fer  it,  maybe! 

But  'twon't  occur  again — 
She's  married,  and  her  baby 

An'  old  man's  in  Cheyenne! 


232 


THE  BUNKHOUSE  BOYS 

WHO  are  a  mighty  happy  crew 
In  ev'rything  they  say  and  do  ? 
The  wildest  bunch  I  ever  knew — 
The  bunkhouse  boys. 

Who,  though  their  manners  may  be  rough, 
Are  true  as  steel — the  pure-gold  stuff, 
And  mighty  quick  to  call  a  bluff? 
The  bunkhouse  boys. 

Who  ride  the  ranges,  lone  and  drear, 
And  herd  the  restless,  bawlin'  steer 
Through  storm  and  sunshine,  year  on  year? 
The  bunkhouse  boys. 

Who  ride  through  town  to  have  their  fun, 
With  foamin'  broncos  on  the  run, 
And  smoke  a-spittin'  from  each  gun? 
The  bunkhouse  boys. 

Who  paint  the  town  a  lurid  red, 
When  decent  folks  are  all  in  bed? 
That  bunch  that's  allus  raisin'  Ned— 
The  bunkhouse  boys. 


233 


THE  BUNKHOUSE  BOYS 

Who  blow  their  hard-earned  ducats  in 
At  playin'  poker,  lose  or  win, 
Yet  takes  their  losses  with  a  grin  ? 
The  bunkhouse  boys. 

When  they  ain't  broke,  who  allus  lends 
A  five  or  ten-spot  to  their  friends, 
And  don't  expect  no  divvydends? 
The  bunkhouse  boys. 

Who  are  the  kings  of  Sagebrush  Land, 
And  allus  out  with  the  glad  hand? 
That  crowd  what  wears  the  true-blue  brand- 
The  bunkhouse  boys. 


234 


THE  COWMAN  JUBILATES 

THE  sodden  slopes  are  turnin'  green 
Where  grassy  shoots  are  peepin'  out- 
Trie  purtiest  sight  you  ever  seen ! 

It  makes  a  cowman  want  to  shout! 
The  cattle  snuff  the  warm  south  air, 
An'  calves  are  friskin'  ev'rywhere ! 

Each  dry  arroyo  tinkles  now 
With  music  of  a  singin'  stream  ; 

It  sort  o'  seems  to  me  somehow 
Like  Nature  wakin'  from  a  dream, 

An'  rubbin'  of  her  eyes,  an'  then 

A-donnin'  her  Spring  duds  again ! 

The  dusty  sagebrush  sheds  its  stains 

Of  powdery,  pungent  alkali, 
An'  at  the  comin'  of  the  rains 

It  seems  to  give  a  heart- felt  sigh, 
An'  shake  itself  a  time  or  two, 
Then  blossom  out  in  gyarments  new! 

The  bunkhouse  rings  with  joyous  shouts! 

There  ain't  a  puncher  feelin'  sore 
Er  even  grouchy  hereabouts, 


235 


THE  COWMAN  JUBILATES 

Sence  all  the  range  waked  up  once  more. 
Jest  hear  'em  singin'  as  they  ride 
A-lopin'  'crost  that  big  divide ! 

An'  ev'ry  bronco's  wide  awake, 

An'  gingery  as  he  kin  be! 
They'll  liven  up  an'  no  mistake, 

When  they  hev  browsed  on  filaree ! 
There  ain't  no  spot  on  earth,  by  jing, 
Like  this  cow  ranch  in  early  Spring! 


236 


A  ROAR  FROM  THE  BUNKHOUSE 

NARY  thing  to  eat  Thanksgivin' 
Only  tin  can  truck ! 
Gittin'  tired  of  sich  livin', 

Darn  th'  ornery  luck! 
Nothin'  only  beans  an'  bacon — 

Pard,  excuse  these  tears  ! 
Seems  jest  like  we've  bin  forsaken — 
Darn  this  punchin'    steers! 

Folks  back  home  are  just  a-stuffin' 

Turkey  meat  an'  pie! 
Our  blame  cook  is  jest  a-bluffin'! 

Gosh,  it  makes  me  sigh! 
No  sich  dinner  fer  us  fellers 

In  this  camp  appears! 
Turkey  ain't  fer  cowboys'  smellers — 

Darn  this  punchin'  steers! 

Weather  soggy-like  an'  murky, 

Makes  me  mighty  blue ; 
Thinkin'  of  Thanksgivin'  turkey 

Makes  me  homesick,  too! 
Sour-dough  bread  an'  canned  tomaters 

Ain't  the  grub  that  cheers 
Oh,  fer  pie  an  mashed  pertaters ! 

Darn  this  punchin'  steers ! 

237 


A  ROAR  FROM  THE  BUNKHOUSE 

Bunkhouse  bunch  are  sick  as  blazes 

Bein'  fed  this  way! 
Gittin'  so  the  maynoo  raises 

Sam  Hill  every  day! 
Every  mother's   son  a-kickin' 

When  the  truck  appears ! 
Never  git  a  sniff  o'  chicken — 

Darn  this  punchin'  steers ! 

Same  ol'  beans  an'  bread  furever ! 

Gosh,  we'd  like  a  change! 
Reckon  we  won't  git  it  never 

While  we  ride  the  range. 
Oh,  fer  some  o'  mother's  cookin' — 

That's  the  dope  that  cheers! 
Guess  my  callin'  I've  mistooken — 

DARN  this  punchin'  steers! 


238 


AN  OLD-TIMER'S  LAMENT 

NO  more  we'll  hear  the  driver's  shout, 
Nor  creak  of  wagon  wheel ! 
The  old  stagecoach  is  down  and  out — 

Our  gloom  we  cain't  conceal! 
No  clank  of  trace-chain  any  more 

Across  the  mesas  brown ! 
It's  goodby  to  them  days  o'  yore — 
The  railroad's  come  to  town! 

We  listen  fer  the  bronco's  feet 

A-poundin'  down  the  trail, 
Or  windin'  past  sage  and  mesquite, 

Across  each  hill  and  swale. 
But,  durn  our  ears!  it  isn't  there, 

And  gosh,  it  makes  us   frown ! 
The  old  West's  almost  gone,  I  swear! 

The  railroad's  come  to  town ! 

She  uster  come  a-rockin'  in 

With  broncos  on  the  run, 
Amid  the  shouts  the  dust  and  din — 

But  them  old  days  is  done ! 
We  hear  a  toot  and  see  some  smoke 

Beyond  Ol'  Baldy's  crown, 
And  then  we  know  it  ain't  no  joke — 

The  railroad's  come  to  town! 

239 


AN  OLD-TIMER'S  LAMENT 

We  uster  stand  and  watch  fer  it 

A-swayin'   'crost   the   flats, 
And  lungin'  onward,  hell-to-split ! 

And  then  we'd  wave  our  hats 
And  hail  the  driver,  "Shotgun  Smith"— 

Frontiersman  of  renown — 
But  all  of  that  we've  parted  with — 

The  railroad's  come  to  town! 

There  ain't  no  West  no  more,  by  jinks! 

The  old  town's  awful  tame! 
And  ev'ry  old-time  plainsman  thinks 

That  it's  a  beastly  shame! 
The  old  stagecoach  is  weather-scarred, 

It  stands  there  rottin'  down! 
It  makes  me  plumb  distracted,  pard — 

The  railroad's  come  to  town! 


240 


THE  OLD  COWMAN'S  CHOICE 

YOU  kin  have  yer  car  as  it's  standin'  thar, 
With  its  paint  all  slick  and  bright, 
Its  brass  work  new,  and  its  engine,  too, 

And  its  tires  all  sound  and  tight. 
You  kin  speed  it  up  like  a  frightened  pup, 

Till  its  motors  purr  and  whine, 
But  fer  downright  joy  in  the  West,  ol'  boy, 
It's  the  ol'  cow  hawss  fer  mine! 

Of  course  you  go  like  a  streak,  I  know, 

As  around  the  curves  you  wind, 
And  the  engines  hum  with  a  soothin'  thrum, 

As  you  leave  the  miles  behind! 
You  open  her  wide  and  you  let  her  slide, 

Where  the  roadway's  smooth  and  fine! 
But,  after  all,  though  you  seem  to  crawl, 

It's  the  ol'  cow  hawss  fer  mine! 

No,  I  won't  deny  you  kin  fairly  fly 

In  yer  high-geared  tony  car, 
And  the  grades  you  climb  in  a  quicker  time, 

With  skeercely  a  jolt  er  jar! 
But,  with  due  regard  fer  yer  auto,  pard, 

With  its  glimmer  and  speed  and  shine, 
What  I  love  best  in  the  grand  ol'  West, 

Is  the  ol'  cow  hawss  fer  mine! 

241 


THE  OLD  COWMAN'S  CHOICE 

Per  a  saddle  seat — wal,  it  caint  be  beat, 

As  you  lope  down  blossomed  trails! 
And  you  feel  the  swing  of  yer  hawss,  by  jing, 

As  he  crosses  the  draws  and  swales! 
If  you  feel  serene  in  yer  swell  machine, 

As  yer  motorin'  down  the  line, 
That's  the  place,  by  gee,  that  you  ought  to  be, 

BUT — the  ol'  cow  hawss  fer  mine! 


242 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

FLUSH,  and  the  world  will  greet  you ! 
Broke,  and  you  herd  alone ! 
For  you  cut  no  ice  when  you  haven't  the  price, 

And  no  good  friend  you  can  "bone" ! 
Wealthy,  and  how  they'll  love  you 

As  long  as  you've  got  a  cent ! 
They'll  pester  your  soul  while  you  flash  a  roll, 
And  kick  you  out  when  it's  spent ! 

Up,  and  they'll  praise  your  sharpness ! 

Down,  and  they'll  jump  your  frame ! 
If  you're  coining  the  chink,  you're  a  wise  old  gink, 

And  gosh  !  how  they'll  laud  your  name ! 
But  let  some  little  misfortune 

Despoil  you  of  every  yen, 
Just  take  this  hunch — not  one  of  the  bunch 

Would  whisper  your  name  again ! 

Spend,  and  the  world  comes  flocking 

To  follow  where'er  you'll  lead ! 
Borrow  a  sou  and  they'll  glare  at  you, 

And  ask  who  you're  trying  to  bleed ! 
Win,  and  they'll  "take  one  on  you" ! 

Lose,  and  you'll  be  the  goat ! 
You  are  up  a  peg  till  they've  pulled  your  leg, 

And  then  they'll  set  you  afloat ! 


243 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

Smoke,  and  you  pay  for  the  stogies ! 

If  you  want  one,  nobody  buys! 
'Twas  ever  that  way  since  Adam's  day, 

For  people  are  worldly-wise ! 
They've  room  in  their  auto  to  take  you 

If  you'll  pay  as  they  eat  and  dance, 
But  you  bet  your  skates,  they  will  make  no  dates 

When  there's  fringe  on  your  Sunday  pants! 


244 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
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DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


AUG  311934 

NOV  11  194£ 

« 

* 

JUL  27  1941 

• 

J 

•  »Jfc  14  1942 

LD  21-100m-7,'33 

,YC   14604 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


